It took my brain a couple of seconds to recognize what my eyes were seeing; the darkness was not the black behind my eyelids. It was a dark that was not only in front of me but- as I turned my head- surrounded me on all sides.
I took a breath, the memories flooding back – I was in a coffin in my family mausoleum. The stun from the taser gun had worn off; I was now fully aware of my surroundings.
I pulled my right arm up and felt around on the dial of my watch until I found the light button. The illuminated numbers revealed that it had been twenty six hours since I’d been infected.
I had to remind myself to speak out loud so the microphones in the coffin as well as throughout the mausoleum could pick up all verbal observations coming from me. I counted backwards from one hundred, then ran through a mental checklist which assured me that my mind still seemed to be functioning.
“The time right now is five thirty p.m., twenty six hours since infection, I have awakened. No symptoms exhibited as of this notation; all mental functions and verbal pronunciations normal at this time.”
I wiggled my toes, flexed my facial muscles, brought my arms up to my chest and moved my fingers, individually at first, then bunched my fist.
“Physical motion has not currently been impaired; confines of the coffin seem to be the only limits on movement at this time.”
I went to push gently on the coffin lid and surprised myself when my arms shot out and slammed into the top, hitting it so hard that the lid actually bounced when the hinges reached their maximum distance; I did not command my hands to do that.
“Amendment to prior comment- control of motor skills seems to be diminishing; slammed coffin lid wide open when actual thought was to push gently.”
I sat up and grasped the sides; the intention was to slide myself out of the coffin. I made it halfway before a spurt of rage seemed to take over my whole system. I leapt out of the coffin, turned, then gave it a solid kick. One was all it took; the coffin went flying off the stone bier, heard it crack, watched it bounce when it hit the concrete floor. I was not in control of my motions; the slow boil of emotional rage seeming to rise up from my guts to encompass my physical frame.
“I have kicked coffin off of bier – now shattered and on the floor. Physical strength has increased; I am still in charge of my logical processes, but the virus seems to be starting to overlap and control my emotions – overriding emotion being rage- at this time.”
About the Author:
S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland.
“Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.”