AN: This is my first fanfic, so please keep that in mind. Also, I'm just starting year seven, so sorry if I can't update constantly. They seem to keep a habit of swamping us poor grade sevens with extra homework, assessment and classwork. I accept reviews and mild flames, but don't be too rude. JJ out.
(May 4, 2016)
My name is Beatrix, and I am dead. Being dead is quite enlightening, you know. Especially the buried part of it. The darkness is endless and the closeness of the coffin is quite...disturbing. So I decide to dig. But to get out, I need to get out of this coffin. I panic in the darkness for a bit before having a brainwave. First thing first, poke out the sides of the coffin with my stiletto heels. And then all my plans fly out of my brain because the lid of this coffin is on me and it's crushing me and I can't breathe. So I roll to one side and the metric tonne of dirt is slightly shifted. But when it comes crashing down into the little space it found now I'm trapped in between dirt and a diagonal coffin lid. You know how uncomfortable that is? It's hell.
Know that I've explained a bit (which really means told you not much at all), I better get started on digging. Digging where? Digging up. One handful after another flies behind me. I reckon that somebody's been down here before, because the dirt's really loose. I hardly need to dig at all, just wiggle my way up. Like a little worm. Like a zombie worm that's recently been dead. Gosh, I'm not a zombie, am I? I hope not. That'd just be sad. I reckon being a zombie's a fate worse than death, since you can't cross the river to Elysium. Oh, I haven't mentioned that my family's greek, have I?
Well, we're Greek. My mom looks like me; blond hair that's really thick, curly and tangles onto anything. I can stick pencils in my hair and they'll stay in. I also have her long, straight nose. It'd be a perfect nose, except it's too long. I have my dad's brown skin, though. And mom's green eyes, that can be compared to freshly cut grass on good days and pond scum on bad ones. My mom and I also share a boot fetish. My dad and I share a fascination with superheroes. We had a normal life. Until I died. I don't even remember how I died. Or in what circumstances. Anything within a day of my death, I can't remember. But I sure will remember now!
Why? Because I'm digging my way out of my own grave. And speaking of digging, my hand is finally in the air. Okay, maybe it's just the tip of my rude finger, but it counts! Now I scrabble away even more frantically than before. If I can get out, I can get help. Meet family and friends again. I wonder if I should just casually show up at school, and be like "Wassup?" To my friends. They'd probably try to 'kill the evil zombie'. Us gamer nerds stick together. But I need to get out to be able to see them. Need to get out.
It took too long. It took way too long to dig my way out of my own grave. What a weird thought. It's not someone should ever have. In any other context, it would be just wrong. But this is me, not some prissy cheerleader. My fingernails are broken and bleeding. One's been torn all the way off. But even as I stare at it, it grows back. Faster than it should grow back. Way faster. Like, in front of my eyes fast. I turn around, finally looking up from my super finger. There are a few stars out, but most are blocked by light pollution from my city. The moon's a waning gibbous moon, and it's big in the sky. Of course, it's partially blocked by big grey clouds. And then I spin and see it. My gravestone. It's not one of those elaborate white marble headstones. In fact, with great irony, it's a simple white cross. Some daisies under it. No inscription. Hand painted. The daisies are in a greek style pot. It's all ferociously clear to me. Too clear. Way too clear. I'm looking at my own grave. And that's when the tiredness kicks in. The overwhelming situation. I'm legally dead. How the hell am i supposed to do anything now? I'm legally dead.
I know a sleeping girl beside an open grave in a funeral dress, with brittle dried flowers in her hair isn't the best image. I would snap a pic, make an awesome creepy pasta and then call the cops, the ambulance and the media. But I'm just too tired. It's slipping away from me. Everything is slipping away from us. It's too far gone for me to grab. So I just slide down onto the lovely wet, dewy grass and close my eyes.
My dreams, I'm afraid, are a bit morbid. I'm floating above my body, watching myself. My face is too pasty with makeup. And then a spade comes through my dream chest, and blood spurts all over my real body. Who is very dead, by the way. And then spades come away and there's a faceless man with a syringe. Which he injects into my neck. Then my body's eyes snap open. But they have no eyeballs, just empty sockets. My mouth also snaps open, and then my soul is being sucked inside my body. It hurts, because my body is chomping my soul into bits and swallowing. I'm being eaten alive by myself. Oh, the irony. And then suddenly my eyeballs are back and I'm looking at the man. I open my mouth again to say "Wha-" just to have the coffin lid slammed shut. And spadeful after spadeful of dirt being thrown onto my poor coffin. I'm being buried alive - and it's not even for the first time.
AN:
Wow. I knew it would suck. Sorry there isn't any Deadpool right now, but I'm going to try and bring him into the story over the next few chapters. Please review! I'm just starting out, so any constructive criticism is appreciated!