he’d said “I love you” multiple times in the night, clutching her -wet with sex, wet with alcohol, wet with sleep. she was sure he meant it, at least in that moment, but how many other times and other girls (certainly not women -not woman like her) had he clutched just like her and said just those same words, hazed with sleep and sex and alcohol?
she rolled her eyes upward toward the shovel above her. all of them, she thought, not even ruefully.
he was burying her alive.
none touched her through the glass cover, she gasped when the first
dirt hit. With a thud, it dumped from his shovel and scattered above
her. through the dark brown and black spatter, she could see him. he
was focused on his task, but every so often, he would look down upon
her, his marvelous, long-lashed eyes wide open directly into hers.
had always had trouble holding his gaze, and so she blinked, and in
that moment, more dirt heaved down upon her sarcophagus. this was
terrible -the claustrophobia alone would undo her. already her breaths
were coming in short and quick and desperate gasps. she moved her head
from side to side, trying to see more of where she’d come to, but there
wasn’t much to see inside the small glass box that he’d given her.
she felt naked and warm and moist, like the soil around her.
opened her mouth to stop him, for surely he would do anything she asked
him to, but abruptly she closed her mouth and did not protest.
all she could see of the sky was a bright, disruptive gash in the black
that was her grave. Rather than growing smaller, the gash seemed to be
she reached out to him, but he was so far away now, still looking down
at her, but not seeing her. and, anyway, her fingers could only reach
as far as the glass lid of the coffin. she pressed her palms flat
against the glass cover, leaving hand-prints misted by her foggy breath.
closed her eyes and now everything was black. she could feel herself
falling asleep, the way that she could sometimes. the other night,
she’d felt the sleep coming in her brain, like the bicycle in her dream,
and she’d jerked anxiously awake before the bicycle could crash into
her. this time, though, the sleep came heavier. it pressed down upon
her chest, almost mouth to mouth, stealing her breath from her lungs
without the satisfying suction of a deep French kiss; it oozed around
her naked flesh, like a rapist with bad intentions.
rather than warm, she felt suddenly cold.
so slowly, she could feel herself freaking out, but there was nothing
she could do about it. she couldn’t even scream, not with the sleep
deep in her mouth. desperate, she pressed against the glass that was
now heavy with dirt. she pressed up against it like a lover, trying to
convince it to move for her; to give way for her; hoping that her body
would be compelling and persuasive... but the glass was an unwilling
lover, and it was unmoved by her.
and then -suddenly -she was dead.