Buried Alive

When I opened my eyes, there was nothing to see. Just darkness pressing down around me. I could hardly move, and I felt like I was suffocating.

Panic gripped me as I realized what was happening.

The air was musty and damp, oppressive. The faint scent of roses lingered, but roses that were dying.

Like me.

Tears welled up, as I choked on a scream.

My hands tightened around the stem of the rose I was holding. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the damp, floral air.

How could they do this to me?

I kicked as best as I could, but it made no difference.

I scratched at the soft satin above me until I felt the cold, unyielding metal.

What had I done to deserve this?

Images of my life flashed past. I had been a caring friend, a good daughter, a good wife.

But it had never been enough.

I strained my ears in hopes that I would hear anything comforting or hopeful. Instead, all I heard was my own heartbeat slowing as I succumbed to the inevitable.