Trapped in the Darkness
It's dark, indescribably dark. Usually there's moonlight, artificial
light, starlight, something, but not here; there's nothing. I try to
move, but I am restrained. I listen, but I hear nothing. I smell but I
smell only something clinical. If it wasn't for my heart pounding and
my lungs racing to catch up, I might imagine I am dreaming, but I'm
not. I'm not!
I fearfully reach out with my right hand and, afraid of what I might
find, I try to resist the temptation to clench my fist. With each
centimetre I stretch comes a new level of terror. I reach further and
further, shivering in anticipation of what I might find. Shivering
allows me to feel the clothes I'm wearing and bringing with it the
frightening realisation that I'm not wearing the jeans and shirt I was
last night. I'm dressed in something quite different.
I bring my hand back, from its outward reach, to touch my waist: it
feels like a jacket. I slide it up to my neck. I feel fabric: it's a
bowtie. I'm in a suit. I rarely wear suits. Reluctantly I force my
hand to resume its search for a clue to where I am. It's an
unspeakable dread, not to know what I might find. I reach out my hand.
Thud. It hits something. I hesitantly stroke the face of the object
that it met. I reach out in another direction. Thud. And then I reach
out in another. Thud. Increasingly alarmed by this feeling of being
trapped I rub the surfaces with my hand, hoping they will yield some
clue to my situation. I feel all around me, but it's futile. My sense
of desperation mounts.
Realising that senses alone won't help me I try to remember what I did
last night. It was my bi...
... middle of paper ...
...ain. There is a slight jolt and I'm stationary. Thank God! There's a
low hum, like the hum of machinery, and I'm moving again, but not
rocking this time. This time the movement seems quite linear, and as I
begin to relax…
There is a roar, like the roar of a furnace which causes my heart to
quicken, my lungs to race and my mind to panic. Tiring of this
torture, I just want it to end. It's hot. My God it's hot! I begin to
perspire; the air thins and I gasp for oxygen. My feet blaze, and
suddenly I realise that this is no nightmare; this is no illusion. I
scream in agony. Aware of the inferno approaching my feet, I start to
convulse, fitting in a futile effort to break free from my constraint.
Flames rupture the coffin that restrains me, and the foul smell of
burning flesh is masked by the inevitability of death.