graveyard wakeup
pov: the chill penetrates your core, seeping into your bones as your eyes flutter open, the darkness just as consuming as when they were closed. the tatters of fabric on your skin, the smell of rot, and the absolute lack of oxygen makes your head fuzzy, your heart quicken. If you had one. You clutch at the cold flesh, the lack of pulse, and you scream, but nothing comes out. Your mouth feels dusty and the space is so small, you need to get out out out. You're so thirsty, so very thirsty. The wood digs into your nails, ripping them off as you fervently, desperately claw at the satin and wood frame holding your last memories of being alive. The wood gives way to dirt, and it falls in your face, your mouth open with shock inhaling the grime, causing you to choke. You continue digging, clawing, scratching away at your own grave until you feel the soft, wet earth, and as you break through you heave a sigh and collapse. Your dress is falling off in tatters, the rain coating your cold skin, shiny and naked as the day you were born. Your grey, sunken flesh gouges holes where your panicked eyes sit above cracked lips and gaunt cheeks. As you claw your way out of your own final resting place, your eye catches the stone marker, your name and date of birth and death placated before you in stone. You're dead. Your head spins as you take in the three other headstones beside yours. No. No, no no no. No, it's not true. It's not them. Your tired, weak bones heave your body across the slimy, wet earth toward the rain-slicked stones and you brush away the moss and weeds, seeing your worst fears displayed in a flowery font. They're gone. They're gone, and so are you. But you are not. You're not gone. Maybe they aren't either. You claw at the earth, panic and desperation taking over you in a primal way, hope climbing up your chest and through your throat in the form of choked sobs. They could be like you. Alive, but not. They could be alive. As your tired, bleeding hands reveal their wooden, rotted coffins, you shakily heave them open, and almost collapse at the sight of their rotten, skeletal corpses. They are not like you. They are gone. The air leaves your lungs and your face turns hot as the cold rain christens you and your family in the cemetery marked with your surname. The mist encompasses you as you scream and wail, the primal sound almost like an animal, holding their crumbling bones in your arms, the pain greater than any pain known before.
- Published June 11, 2022, 19:05
- in Still Waters
- in 𝟎𝟓 - 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐀𝐔
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