David woke up in the dark, hot as fucking Hell.
He moved his arms, but hit wood. Felt his chest — he was wearing a suit.
For a moment, he didn’t panic. He’d imagined situations like this before. He’d visualized punching out of a coffin before. He had super strength. It wasn’t impossible. He’d survive.
But he felt something — a little particle of fear trying to spark, trying to set his whole goddamn body on fire, trying to kill him with paralysis.
But he couldn’t be afraid. He punched the coffin. With his super strength, he cracked it in one go. The dirt began sprinkling onto him, but it was nothing compared to the second punch, which burst the coffin open.
The dirt began pouring onto him. He swiped at it, moving it towards his feet while he began squirming upwards. He climbed out of the dirt, essentially, letting it pour down towards his feet.
It went on like that for several minutes. He knew he had to just stay ahead of the dirt. He needed the leverage. He had to stay ahead.
But there was still that particle of fear, trying to set him aflame. It was like a damned lighter in the wind. The spark was there, but not long enough to do anything. He kept snuffing it out, refusing to ask the question that would end his life then and there.
He kept digging, kept fighting the dirt.
When his hand touched grass, he didn’t feel relief. He didn’t cry.
He pulled himself up, uprooting some grass in the process.
He couldn’t ask the question. He couldn’t cry.
But there was no way to hold the question back any longer. Laying there, caked in dirt, body and mind exhausted, he asked the question.
How’d I end up here?
That’s when the memory hit him like a fastball he hadn’t managed to catch.
The demon that’d killed all his friends.
All his friends were dead.
Laying there in the grass, suit and face and body caked with dirt, the hot Florida Sun beating down on him, he began to cry.