A Deadly Game

My chest attempts to heave a gasp like that of a newborn clutching its first breath, but a crushing weight holds it steady. I want to open my eyes, or perhaps my mouth to swallow a gulp of air, but my entire body is stiff under the blanket of earth he put me in. He buried me again. I hate it when he does this. There's really no reason for it; it's all for the hell of it to him. He likes to watch me dig myself from my own grave.

My bones are still achy and stiff from the healing process of dying once again, making the thought of moving sound like a lazy daydream.

He knows it's difficult for my body to function correctly after coming back; that's why he doesn't bury me as deep as he wants to. I know if I had the strength of one hundred men to dig myself up, he would put me more than six feet under, just to see how long it takes for me to resurface.

My heart is beginning to pound heavy. I understand that if I don't dig myself up now, I'll soon die once more. I gather all my strength and motivation into my right hand, and I flex my fingers against the cold, hard earth. The mud pushes back against my joints, refusing to let up its grip. My heart beat quickens; I'm dying. If I could roll my eyes, I would.

I push my entire arm against the grip of the damp dirt, feeling its iron fist begin to loosen. I almost smiled, if not for the dirt smothering my face.

Finally, after fighting against the irritating restraint, my arm broke free and I felt the crisp air above me brush my fingertips. Now to free the other arm.

At this point, I was accustomed to digging myself from my own grave. First thing you need to free is your arms, which you can use to uncover your face, then your abdomen, then your legs. Your face is always the hardest part.

With both arms now free, I began clawing at the ground patted above my face. Dirt gathered under my nails with an irritating sensation, but I did not stop. Desperate for air, I continued to dig and scrape mud away from where I figured my mouth would be. Finally, I could taste a mixture of earth and oxygen as my lips broke the surface. I sat for a moment, gulping mouthfuls of air, grateful for the taste.

It took two hours to recover the rest of my body from the mud. When I finished, I sat on the ground for a while, my muscles weak from exhaustion and my chest sore from taking rugged breaths. Behind me, a slow laugh sounded, making me jump.

"You're so cute covered in filth," said Oliver, who had been watching me the entirety of the two hours. Oliver helped me to my feet, and held my waist as we made our way back to our house. My legs were trembling and sore, and my arms felt like one hundred pound dumbbells at my sides.

"Why do you do that?" I asked him, my words spoken in between sighs as I struggled to catch my breath. He didn't answer, but he didn't need to. I already knew the answer.

As much as I loved him, Oliver was sick in the head. I finally accepted this the day I watched him twirl deer innards with a piece of wood. I knew Oliver took joy in watching me fight for my life. Death wasn't a milestone to him; it was a game of some sort.

And soon it will be my turn to play.