The first thing I know is suffocation.
And with this, I wake with a gasp, lungs screaming as I instinctively sit up and instantly regret it.
The action causes the crown of my forehead to burst into pain, and I fall back with a curse.
My hands go up automatically to clutch at the area of impact, and I feel a roughness brush my elbows and fingers as I do.
The pain fades relatively quickly, but I realized the hit dazed me.
Dizzily, the grip on my head loosens and the hands reach out to explore what they brushed.
An inexplicably rough surface greets them, harsh and flaky and —
My hands snap back, pain and heat plucking at multiple fingers; sliver-y.
Wood, my mind supplies.
Warily, my exploration continues, feeling out the surface above me.
Am I under something? I wonder distantly.
As my hands continue to spread, I realize whatever I'm under has corners,meeting at the surface above me and connecting to…sides of the same material.
A flicker of panic brushes my mind, and I instinctively push at the roughness.
It doesn't budge.
The flicker turns to a spark, and when I shove, ignites.
My breath quickens, sharp and broken by bubbles of anxiety in my chest and throat.
I shove and push, panic scratching my esophagus and the quietest of keens building in my throat.
Finally I start to scratch, applying an impossible amount of pressure to the wood, quickly wearing down my nails to the beds, panic and instinct and fear, such fear, turning the keens to sobs.
But still I didn't stop, even when I felt blood well at my finger tips.
I don't stop, not even when I see crimson start to smear on the separate slats of wood.
No, I only stop when I realize I can see the smears and slats, when before the darkness around me had been black as pitch and heavy as stones.
Confusion joined the panic and fear, brewing a completely unhelpful disorientation.
My palms turned, eyes immediately disregarding the bloody fingertips in favor of the impossibility burning at the center of my hands.
Flames.
Dim, and only slightly warm, but flames.
In my hands.
The panic quickly turned to absolute, instinctual terror.
A scream burst from my throat, and I shoved my hands away, pushing,pushing, wanting it away, and the flames complied, bursting forth and slamming against the wood slats above me.
The dry slats instantly blackened, and with nothing left to burn, the fire licked its way across her ceiling of fuel, devouring all, until it the heat reached my face and I pulled back my hands with a yelp.
Now the entirety of my space — apparently entirely made of wood — was suddenly ablaze.
Oranges, yellows, and reds surrounded me on all sides, even beneath me, and on me as well.
The entire time, screams had been ripping themselves from my throat and now it heaved and choked with the exertion, sealing itself off even as I felt myself gag with horror and desperation.
Through the flames, I banged at my wooden ceiling, distantly registering the sudden lack of sting the flames brought me, and more importantly registering the ominous creak that rose over the crackle of flames.
With a bare second to through my arms up over my head, the ceiling caved in and blackness descended once more.
Due respects to DollDivine for the image of Ardent.