Buried

Hans

It’s been a while since I’ve been dead. You’d think after dying on and off in the same pattern for three hundred years I’d be used to how it worked, but nope. As it had been every other time, I was horrified and rather inconvenienced by the slew of feelings I’d quite forgotten. To begin with was how cramped my coffin was. I’m by no means a big guy, but even still the damned thing was built to fit tightly to my shoulders. The lid had barely three inches of clearance between it and my chest. I inhaled deeply, ignoring the dusty, earthy taste to the stale air, and imagined watching that space shrink. There was something oddly soothing about concentrating on my breathing. The practice was so natural, and even though I could technically go without it, breathing was still an involuntary reflex, and something so grounded maintained a connection with the world. Even still, I could only be amused by breathing for so long.

            I sighed and shifted restlessly. Coffins weren’t designed for comfort. Which, in theory, makes sense but they should really consider that one of the clients may not be completely dead.

            One of the other problems was the dark. Now I’m far from being afraid of the dark. I know exactly what goes bump in the night " I live with him. No, it’s just painful when your eyes are constantly trying to see and there’s absolutely no light whatsoever to facilitate seeing. They really do bury you six feet under.

            My right hand found my left wrist and I pressed the tiny button on my watch. That was my favourite thing about being buried these days. Not only were you entombed with a watch, everything is digital so it’s actually possible to tell what time it is. Wriggling carefully in the tight space, I brought the watch up to my face. 9:11 PM June 23 declared the glowing green face.

            Great, Michael was late. I thrust my hand back down by my leg. The waiting didn’t bother me all that much, but when all I asked was to be picked up at the time that we’d both agreed on, I started to get mad. And it wasn’t like he was a couple of hours behind schedule. No, Michael was two days late. If I had more room, I would have crossed my arms. I was dead. I was allowed to be a diva.

            I began tapping out the pattern to a Liszt piece on my leg, recalling the rhythmic counting as easily as I did the spelling of my own name. I was just getting started on the third movement when there was a series of scraping followed by a loud thud that echoed around my coffin and made my ears ring.

            “One, two, three,” I muttered. Right on time the wood splintered over my head and moonlight spilled over me as my coffin was split down the middle and pulled outwards like a set of poorly oiled French doors.

            Michael stared down at me, dirt smudged over his face and splinters of wood caught in his dark hair. He extended a hand, which I gladly accepted. My shoulder popped loudly and I could feel the muscles in my shoulder blade twang as he hauled me to my feet.

            “You’re late,” I complained. Massaging my aching arm and wiggling to dislodge the dirt Michael had sprayed over me, I emerged completely from the hole. I looked over at my companion, who had leapt out ahead of me, and realized that while he was looking at me, his eyes kept flicking over my shoulder. I quirked my eyebrows.

            “I got…distracted,” he said finally.