Zoe and the grave

"What a bitch of a nightmare!"

These were the first words that came out of her mouth, as she opened her eyes and saw only darkness before her. She had dreamt that she was dead and in the process of being buried, but the twist in the plot was that she could still feel every hellish moment that unfolded, every shovel of dirt crashing against her coffin with a sound that was both unrelenting and horrid. The only noise in her mind that came even clearer than that, was the sound of her own hopeless screams, which seemed to be emanating from someone else's mouth.

Thankfully, mercifully, the nightmare was over. But why was everything so dark? She felt a surreal terror crawling up her spine, as she tried to sit up only to discover that her movements were restricted by the narrow walls that surrounded her. She stretched out her arms, half-expecting the tips of her fingers to brush against some forgotten skeleton hand, but that didn't happen. However, the feeling of hardwood planks against her palm seemed just as bad.

As she laid down, she stretched her arms forward, but they didn't reach too far. She tried pushing against the lid of her wooden enclosure with all her might, but it barely budged; just enough to allow a bit of dirt to eerily invade her space, confirming her worst fears. It wasn't just a dream after all.

She was buried.

Alive.

"How the hell did I get myself into this shit-show?" she yelled loud enough, if only for herself to hear. God knows, no one else could.

In her mind, about a thousand thoughts swirled and danced around, and combined with the terrible headache that was pummeling her unrelentingly, creating a bitter cocktail of unanswered questions and doubts.

She called out for help as loudly as she could until she realized that she was only wasting oxygen. No one would hear her plead inside this grave. But she wouldn't let herself worry, at least not to the point of panic. She closed her eyes and started counting deep breaths. As long as she was still breathing, there was hope for salvation.

Her name was Zoe. There was no "y" at the end, no ridiculous umlaut over the "e" just to make her sound special, no punctuation mark of any type. Simply Zoe. She hated it when people insisted on misspelling her name. She was twenty-seven years old, unfathomably beautiful, Gemini by star sign, rebel by nature.

During her school days, homework did not agree with her, or rather she didn't agree with it. It wasn't because she was not smart enough,, it was just that she felt that there were many more important things in life to accomplish before her childhood was gone, and the burdens of adulthood slowed her down.

When asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, the answer was always the same: "Planet-Eater, the conqueror of worlds." Even though she didn't quite comprehend at that age, what exactly such a title would entail, the raw power it projected in her (not so) innocent, adolescent mind, spoke volumes to her inherent trend towards anarchy and chaos, to the point where she had become so familiar with the idea, that she believed, beyond any doubt, that this was meant to be her destiny.

Besides, even as a child she had this deeply embedded notion, that regardless of her level of education, fate had great things in store for her, things which she was certain she would one day accomplish, if she could first and foremost, get herself out of this damn grave.

How did she end up here in the first place? What had happened between her last recollection and her current predicament? Her memory was cursed with this agonizing gap, which taunted her provocatively, like struggling to remember a word that was latched on the tip of her tongue but refused to let go.

If there was one thing, however, that defined Zoe to her core, it was that unreal, unwavering composure, which would be envied even by the Dalai Lama himself.