Nail in Her Coffin

Stale, moldy air suffocates you. Your back itches to sit up while you wipe a layer of dust off the soft fabric of your dress. Finally, you open your eyes and let out your anger. Pounding at the wooden plywood, your coffin. Swallowing dusty air, you gag and dry heave. Your skin feels like leather. Who knows how long you've been down here. Dead. The skin of your knuckles tears easily like tissue paper; a result of you hitting the hardwood over and over again. Your eyes sting as if acid was poured into them and the skin around them feels wrinkled with age. A sick feeling overwhelms you as you imagine yourself a shriveled up raisin. If you were able to see, you're sure you would make out the decayed crevices of your skin as rotten flesh. You can feel bone in some holes on your arm where skin once was, but the pain is numb. If only your eyes were too. "Let me out!" You scream to the top of your lungs choking on the scent of your own rotten flesh.
