She let out an animal wail I would never be able to unhear.
I don’t remember much after that. Just flashes of maybe-memories. A paramedic cursing while he tried and failed to establish an IV, the ambulance bumping over pitted cement. A doctor’s gentle touch, and the unmistakable look of pity in a nurse’s eyes as she gave the pain meds that rushed like cold jewels through my veins, bringing me one step closer to the lurking darkness. The quiet beep beep beep of the ventilator breathing for me. The glitter of the stars through my hospital window, a shimmering blanket lulling me to sleep.
No one said anything. No one had to.
I was dying.
Mom climbed into my bed, her arm pressed along my arm, her leg pressed along my leg, and she held my hand. She sang her lullaby and told me she loved me, and her tears mingled with my hair. She told me it was okay, that I could let go. And with her by my side, I did. I relaxed my shoulders and opened myself up to my fate, waited for the cold hand of death to take me.
But I didn’t die. I woke up the next day, and the day after that, and the doctor called me a miracle. A grim determination formed in Mom’s eye. She quit the jail, got a job at CVS that paid shit but was flexible with hours. She was different. She wasn’t going to let this thing take me without a fight.
Mom, where are you now?
I squeeze my eyes against a rush of tears. Mom isn’t going to save me this time. No one is going to hold my hand, no one is going to sing me to sleep.
But instead of making me panic worse, the realization makes my resolve sharpen to a blade point. I won’t go like this. I’m going to get out of here. It’s not over yet.
I suck in a shuddery breath, then flatten my palms on the lid of the coffin. If it’s locked, it’s all over. The thought brings on a fresh wave of panic. But the hinges creak when I push, small puffs of dirt billowing into the coffin. I choke back a cough, but hope flutters somewhere deep in the numbness of my chest. It was midnight when we arrived at the cemetery. If it’s still dark outside, and if I move slowly, opening the lid more and more as she adds dirt to the top of the coffin, maybe she won’t notice I’m trying to escape. And then when she’s gone and she thinks she’s gotten away with it, I’ll dig through feet of dirt without breathing….
I shake my head, forcing the bad thoughts away. I can’t think about the futility of it all right now. I have to move. I have to get out of here.
There’s no way I’ll be able to lift a coffin lid weighted with dirt and somehow slip out from this position. I need more leverage. I need to get off my back.
It’s small in here, too tight, but I twist and shuffle and roll until I’m facedown. I never thought being tiny and frail would be an advantage, but it is now, when the cramped, narrow space would have prevented almost anyone else from moving inside.
With my damp hands flat against the bottom of the lined casket, I draw my knees up under me until I’m crouched in a ball, the coffin lid pressed uncomfortably against my spine. And then slowly, so slowly, I push up, bearing the weight of the lid on my back. It’s heavier now, after just a few minutes, but it’s working. It’s opening. All I want to do is push up as fast as I can while the dirt is still loose, get the hell out of here. But I can’t go too fast or Lyla will notice.
I huff for air, a damp sweat wetting my brow.
Thump, thump, thump.
I heave up, supporting the thousand-ton weight of the lid and all the dirt covering it on my back. It’s heavy, so heavy. My spine burns, thighs trembling with the effort to keep the lid open. My knees dig into the hard bottom of the coffin. If I don’t roll out now, I’ll collapse, and the lid will close. And if that happens, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to get it back open again.
Sweat trickles down my temple. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the sound of dirt landing so I can move. My legs quake under the strain, muscles shredded. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t wait anymore.
Thump, thump, thump.
Now.
I shuffle to the side. I lose my careful balance, and the lid pushes me down, but I grunt and push up hard until it’s open again, the sharp edge of the coffin lid digging into my spine. Great heaps of dirt shift beneath me, and the thumping suddenly stops. I’ve moved too quickly. She’s seen me.
No, she can’t have seen me. That’s impossible. I’m too far down, six feet under.
But she saw the dirt shift.
My thighs sway, shudder, my lungs and heart and cells screaming with the effort of keeping still, still, still.
Dirt sifts down, tinkling softly at my knees. I gulp dry, stinging air, begging my body to stay strong, to do this for me, for once in my goddamn life, to come through.
Please. Please don’t notice me.
The sounds above me continue, but I don’t dare move yet. If she so much as suspects I’m trying to escape, she’ll stuff me right back in the coffin and make sure I don’t get out this time.