Questions Of Vivisepulture

There are worse things in life than death

CW for claustrophobia, arachnophobia, entomophobia, & taphophobia

I refuse to give in. I won’t let it take me. A centipede slithers up my cheek, the tiny red barbs stinging as it heads for my nostril. I do hope my nose isn’t big enough for it to fit. I inhale through my nose as it nears and hold my breath, ready to exhale through my nostrils as hard as I can to get it out. I heaved a sigh of relief as it detoured across my lips and down the other side of my neck.

I wiggle as much as I can, but it’s too narrow. My shuffling creates a tidal wave of arachnids to scurry in panic across my body. I bet my stomach is a patchwork quilt of fang marks and stings. I shake my head back and forth stiffly. The sound of footsteps above me echoes into my ears.

If only I could scream to let them know I am here!

I attempt to open my mouth, but I am met with resistance. My jaw won’t budge. It’s like having a wire penetrate your upper gums only to be sewn into the bottom of your mouth.

I don’t feel my tongue; how odd.

I chalked it up to the terror of being in this state, but I wish I could scream. With the seal tight around my mouth, I urge my vocal cords to at least make a muffled gag-like screech.

Nothing happens.

I shuffle some more; I can feel myself move. I know that the rocking is working. I rock violently from side to side. I can feel the wooden splinters breaking off into my flesh, but I don’t stop. The motion suddenly ceased with a hard stop at the bottom.

Why did I stop? 
I was rocking! 
I was moving! 
Wasn’t I?

I focus with all my might on my finger, begging it to wiggle. I tried all five fingers to no avail. I try with my toes, but even they sit in the stillness.

Shake. 
Boom. 
Shake.

The wooden box rattles as heavy objects land on top. Dirt dusting my eyes. It’s pitch black, so I can’t see a thing. I think I opened my eyes, but if I did, the dirt would sting. Maybe they are still closed.

I don’t understand what is happening to me. I can hear; I felt the centipede move down my cheek. Unless…

No, it can’t be that! 
Not that! 
I am alive! 
No, don’t do this! Please!

The tears of the crowd bellowed down onto the dirt that was already wet with rain. It was a good day as any other. The rain made it slightly easier, but the loss could not be lessened by the ease of the digging.

“And here we lay to rest on this day, the 17th of June, 1812, Sarah Compton. Beloved wife, mother, and daughter. May you rest in peace.”