The Echo In My Coffin

Death, you say? No, it isn’t. It’s something worse. Darker home to demons I know by name. I am stuck in a coffin, a box of something, but not wood. The sand in my eyes won’t let me cry, and the cold soil numbs my heart. It aches, certainly, but I think I like it. How long has it been? A minute? A lifetime? It feels like him, but I want to escape. I kick. I kick hard. I scream. But the echoes stay in the box. They don’t fade. They only pile up, whispers pressing against my skin. No one hears the weeping masochist. "Let me out." I whisper. The whispers come back, but they aren’t mine anymore. "We just want to help you," they hiss. "We are better than your filthy friends. At least we stay in the dirt with you."