Friday, March 16, 2012

digging in the dirt

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.

though 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.

she 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.

she 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.  

soon, 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 growing further.  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.

she 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.

ever 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.

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