You're dead.
You're certain of it. You can't say how long ago it was, or exactly how it
happened. But you're positive that you're dead. Absolutely...
Well, fairly certain.
Because if you're dead, then how is it possible that you're thinking about
being dead? Doesn't the state of being dead preclude being able to think
about being dead? How is...wait. There it is again. A gentle nudging at the
edges of consciousness. You are too dreary to notice it fully, and it fades
away as you drift back to...then a tug. This time, the tug is more annoying,
waking you from your gentle hazy stupor. You ignore it and concentrate on
drifting back to your final rest...
Suddenly, there comes a wrenching, clawing grasp that sends shards of pain
through every part of your being, as you are pulled from your stupor and
dragged down, down out of the light and into the darkness.
Suddenly, the shadows draw back from your face, and you find yourself
struggling to move, pinned in on all sides. Dirt fills your mouth and eyes,
and as you struggle to cry out and gasp for air, you realize that you don't
need to breathe. You are not buried alive.
You are merely buried.
