I couldn't resist. 4x01 was the most intense hour of tv I've seen in 4 months (since NRFTW). Please review, then head to my blog where I'll answer.
The first breath came in a choking gasp, a burning rush of oxygen into a throat long dry. His entire body gave a convulsive jolt as life returned like a stroke of summer lightning. The darkness was complete, total blindness. In the palm of his hand, he felt the cold familiar weight of a Zippo lighter. A thought flashed through his mind, dry amusement that Sam had the foresight to bury him with a lighter in his fist. After a short moment of fumbling with his still-numb fingers, he managed to thumb the wheel and a blaze of light burst forth, burning his paper-dry eyes.
All he could see was a wall of pitted pine, only inches above him. A few crooked, rusty nails jutted out at odd angles. He caught his breath, understanding immediately where he was. Horror followed shortly after understanding, and he took a ragged breath. And he screamed.
The scream hurt, burned. All the nerves in his bone-dry throat sprang alive and he choked, coughed. He bit on his tongue, trying to summon moisture to his parched mouth, and yelled again. And again. But he knew, inside, that it was useless. There was no one to hear him, no one to help him.
He reached up, wincing as the flame of his lighter singed his palm, and slapped at the wood of the coffin lid. It shifted slightly at his touch and a trickle of dirt fell onto his face. He reached back up and pressed the boards with all his might, groaning at the effort. The wood, rotted and brittle, burst beneath his hands and a cascade of dirt and stone dropped down, immediately cutting off his breath.
Panic threatened and he clawed his way upward, not feeling any pain as one of his fingernails ripped away. The earth pressed in on all sides, squeezing the breath from his chest. Spots of light swam before his eyes as his lungs began to scream for air. Just when he felt unconsciousness lurking at the outskirts of his brain, his hand broke free from the earth.
He heaved forward, reaching for the sky that he knew was just out of sight, and suddenly there was air, cool and sweet. He gave a mammoth gasp, the air searing his throat. The ground, reluctant to give him up, crushed his legs and he groaned again, reaching forward to grab handfuls of grass and weeds. Slowly, inch by painful inch, he pulled himself free of the grasp of the earth and collapsed, breathless, in the grass.
Who knew that dirt and grass and dead leaves, even his own fresh sweat, could smell so damned good? He lay prone in the dirt, sucking wind, trying to slow his jackhammer heartbeat. He could feel the scratch of denim on his legs, the soft touch of his t-shirt clinging to his back. The heat of the sun at his neck, the soft whisper of the wind over his skin…it was like feeling every tiny thing for the very first time. An overload of sensation. He rolled over, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. Just breathing.