write a new story | short stories

bury me face down

She's choking in the earth.

It's so, so hard to breathe down here, and each day, it becomes more difficult. Each day, her tiny pocket of air decreases in size. Soon, she will finally be where she belongs. She will be where she is supposed to be.

There's not much longer to go, she tells her frantic, oxygen-starved mind. Not much longer. It will all be over soon, and she is grateful for this, at least. The coming, inevitable end is all she has left. The woman wishes it has already happened.

No one's life is supposed to end this way. She does not deserve this fate. Few people do. Few people, even in this cruel world, deserve the repeated stabs of a sharpened silver knife, and the blood, so much blood, their own blood, running across the floor, staining everything it touches. And the pain - oh, the pain. If only she had died from it. If only she was not such a fighter.

The woman has always been a fighter. She has fought in her career, in her home, in everything she does, and she keeps fighting now. She does not want to be, but it is in her nature. The nature that once brought her fame, glory, the concepts most only dream about. Once, in a whole other timeline, she had everything anyone could ever wish for. Now, she has been reduced to a nameless corpse, struggling until the end that should have come long, long ago.

She has always hated feeling trapped. Now, stone surrounds her, but she can almost feel the dirt, taste the dust slowly trickling down her throat. She is completely encased, unable to move in any way. At least she is aware the end is near. Pure, utter agony is all that is left of her, but the end is near now. The end is near. She repeats it, almost as if it is meant to be some sort of encouraging mantra. The thought, the constant repeating of it, makes her do the exact opposite of the only thing left to desire - it makes her keep going. 

How ironic, she thinks, and tries to stave off the panic. How ironic that the knowledge of her death coming makes some traitorous part of her brain want to stay alive.

A desperate part of her searches, panicked, for something else to try, some other way out. Rationality responds with the truth that is as cold and hard as her prison: everything has already been tried. She has screamed until her lungs give out. She has cried until crying is no longer physically possible, until her body is dried up of the moisture required to make them. She has fought until it is not just confinement, but complete exhaustion, that keeps her from movement. She has prayed until there is nothing left within her. She has no faith, peace, hope, perseverance. Not a single shred. She is decayed. She is withered. She is nothing.

The woman struggles to breathe, gulping for air. Her body is flailing, but her mind is resigned. Almost over, she tells her gasping lungs, her punching arms, kicking legs, twitching lips. Quiet down. It's almost over. But it will not stop, nothing will stop. She tries to scream, but she has no voice. She bites her severely-cut lip so much it bleeds and then some, yet it twitches on. She bites her arm, pins her legs together, and yet she struggles. She fights, though she knows it is hopeless, though she knows there is no chance left for her. She is already a goner.

So many vendettas, so many mistakes. Poor, poor woman.

She is sealed tight, and still cannot breathe. She looks up as far as she can, and wishes she could see the sun, embrace the wide, open, bright blue sky. She wishes she could observe the shapes of the clouds, hear the birds chirp, talk quietly with a friend. She wishes she could feel the exhilaration of a fight, being in the ring, surrounded by lights and spectators, yet alone with her opponent.

If only she could live just one more time. If only she had done a few things differently. If only she did not have so many regrets. If only she had opened her eyes before it was too late.

The one time she was late, the one time she was quiet, was the one time that mattered. It is difficult to silence one as naturally loud as this woman, but it has been done. Her exuberant spirit frolics across the grass above her, and her frail body, mind, and heart are left alone.

She chokes on her failed attempts to take air into her starved, fragile body. She is a neat freak surrounded by the thing she hates most. She despises the stone surrounding her and the dirt surrounding it, longs to punch through the earth to find her own way to freedom, as she has done so many times before in life. She was strong, before. So, so strong. But this is the one fight she cannot win.

Gradually, her body calms, though still twitches with a fervor. Without interest, she stares unblinkingly at the stone above her. Her gaze is as dead as she soon will be.

There is no air, no hope remaining for her. Yet still, the woman wishes. She has only one wish left. If only she had been buried face-down, quieted, ended long before now.

The twitching stops. The mind ceases. The eyes freeze, open, staring at stone. The earth takes her.

The earth takes her as it takes all others. It has no regrets. It does not know injustice. It simply does what it has done always - hold those who have departed from life. 

And so the earth takes another soul, long after it has descended into the ground.