I realized when I first woke up - it was so, so dark. I wondered if death was like that - satiny casing and darkness forevermore. I wondered how people didn't go mad when they died, then realized it probably didn't matter to anyone alive. Darkness and satiny casing and death get pretty old, very fast. If this was all I'd have for eternity, then the epilogue to my novel was a fucking drag - the kind that you skip.
I tore through satiny casing to find hardwood, and I scratched at it with my nails because there was nothing else to do. Time - an arbitrary measure - has no meaning in death; in the inside of the wolf's mouth; in the inside of a coffin; in the inside of a coffin buried two meters underground.
It's dark in the inside of a coffin.
It's quiet, too, most of the time. I hear her body rest under the dirt, and the frantic shoveling from above burying her. There's no casing to her form - just her and the soil, as it should be. Dust to dust, and all that. The world is muted through layers of isolating earth. Does that numb me to sound? Is it the dirt in my ears, or the decomposition of my flesh? My ears are obsolete cartilage, protecting a sense of feeling that hardly remains. And still, stillI hear her.
She's the non-pulse that beats mechanically through me, too - as if the ghost of my heartbeat came back to haunt me. It's the non-epinephrine, the memory of that bitter-biting-bustle chasing down the lane of my veins that washes over me when I hear her underground.
It's eternity before she wakes. I can tell when she does, because she shuffles and thrashes like a wild beast. I'd be surprised if the worms and roots and mushrooms didn't hear her curses and desperate climbing.
Naturally, I follow.
The edge of my dress tears halfway through my way out, but I understand her restless escape, now. I too am possessed with feral vigor of that of a caged animal shown a way out. I chase after the surface, drowning until I'm out.
She draws unnecessary breaths in the moonlight, chest heaving from the effort. She's covered in dirt, whatever thin white clothes she wears are now all shades of brown. The side of her right calf is torn open, surely caught on the barbed wire to the side of the cemetery. Black trickles silently down her ankle, and into the soil. Dust to dust, and all that.
"Ah, shit," she heaves as she looks down to her leg, leaning against a nearby grave for support. There's something beautifully ironic about her faint greenish hand gripping the mourning angel's granite wing. Let me rephrase that; there's something beautiful about it."Took you long enough," she looks at me with a crooked kind of smile.
"I had to tear through wood with my nails."
"Maybe you're just slow."
"Again - through wood. With my own fingernails."
"Whatever." She smiles again, toothy and full of a life uncharacteristic to a corpse.
My nerves are damaged beyond repair, but when I hold her hand I could swear I feel warmth again.
this 'holiday' is a fking nightmare and the only way i'll digest it even remotely is through untimely halloween extravaganza. ft zombie gfs