Misery County

Epilogue - Part 1

He gasped for oxygen, his lungs burning like they were besieged by a colony of fire ants, but there was none – neither fire ants nor oxygen. Instead, he felt something alongside the burning. What was that sensation? It brought back memories of when he used to be a swimmer. He'd be underwater for too long and his lungs would become full of carbon dioxide. That's what it was. The air around him was heavy with carbon dioxide. Where was he? Everything was black. Was he blind? Did he even have eyes? Lifting his arms to bring his hands to his face, he was met with resistance barely above where he was lying. What was on top of him? It wasn't time to panic. He rubbed his fingers along the smooth surface. Wood? Polished wood? He felt more of the same when he tried to scoot to either side.

He was in a coffin.

It was time to panic.

He began flailing, bashing the inside of the lid of his coffin with his head, fists, knees, shoulders, and any part of him that could make contact with it. He may have been blind, but he wasn't deaf – the sound of the wood cracking didn't escape him, quiet though it was. Hope. He doubled his efforts, putting all of his energy into his frantic movements.

The coffin finally gave way with his last headbutt. The wood caved outward as his forehead smashed into it, and immediately caved in the other direction, toward him, as he pulled back. The sprinkling of dirt on his face told him he was getting somewhere, but now he was questioning the wisdom of flooding his already cramped space with more material. As he thought about it, though, he realized he had no option, so he carried on bashing at the lid with all his might.

The affair felt like it lasted hours. He knew it didn't, but now he was wondering something else – even if that all happened in the span of minutes rather than hours, how was he still alive? His thoughts were interrupted by the lid completely succumbing to the weight of the dirt on top of it and collapsing inward, enveloping him.

It shouldn't have been possible to shift the dirt around him. He knew it shouldn't have been possible, and yet his body managed to move itself upward with inhuman strength. Like a determined dog digging a hole, he too was shoveling with his arms, but upside down and against the weight of God only knows how much dirt.

Something changed. His fingertips pushed through a surface and were met with no resistance. This was it – the outside world. Summoning up a second wind of energy, he dug through with all his might, hungry for a breath of fresh air. When his face broke through the surface, he exhaled all the carbon dioxide in his lungs and took in the deepest breath he could. It was heaven. The oxygen felt cool and crisp against his alveoli, unlike the burning carbon dioxide that had filled them up moments before.

This wasn't right, though. Oxygen shouldn't just feel good; it should keep you alive. How was an uncomfortable sensation the only negative effect from being deprived of good air for so long? And where was he?

It was night time, but the full moon was illuminating the park he was in rather well. No, not a park. It was a cemetery. There were gravestones dotted all around, and turning to look behind him, there was one a mere foot from his face.

Gerald Snyder

Beloved father, son, and ex-husband

Typical of his ex-wife to make his death about her. His ex-wife – what was her name? Clarice? And his name – Gerald – Jerry. How did it take him so long to realize that he didn't know who he was? And yet, even now, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because he was no longer Jerry Snyder. He was born again, and the clawed paw-hands he held up to his face were testament to that.

He sniffed at the air around him, assailing his senses with a wealth of information. He could smell his dad. He was at his grave the day before. He had poured a beer out over the grave – Jerry could smell that too. No, not Jerry. Jerry's dead, and the man he called his father was nothing to him now.

Another smell caught his attention. Someone was nearby – a loved one visiting another grave perhaps – and the beast who was once called Jerry was so, so hungry.