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I curse my stupidity under my breath and open my eyes again. I will probably die trying to get out of this mess, but I refuse to lie here gasping for air like a fish out of water.
If Timur had more experience, he’d have known to bind my hands behind me, not in front. Even in the limited space, it’s no great effort to rip the duct tape away from my wrists; it takes a minute to chew a ragged edge, but then it’s off in seconds. I flex the joints, trying to bring the circulation back. Fuck, it’s cold in here.
It’s already clear that the coffin itself is a piece of crap, most likely off-the-peg chipboard garbage. I push my hand over it, feeling it bowing under pressure.
Okay. No one cared enough to get my skeleton friend a decent box, so it follows they skimped on everything else. Maybe the grave isn’t too deep. Not that it makes any difference; my next move is non-negotiable.
I give the coffin lid a swift kick, and it cracks again, showering me in powdery dust. I cough violently and curse.
Yep. Even if I succeed in smashing the everloving shit out of this coffin, I’ll choke to death on earth before I get anywhere close to the surface.
I cross my arms over my chest, then uncross them to reach my shoulders. I pluck at the fabric with some difficulty, teasing my shirt up to my neck, and I hit my head hard as I pull my shirt off.
Don’t pass out. I blink rapidly as the darkness swarms around me, unsure if I’m still conscious. How can I be sure?
Lilyana. I have to get to Lilyana.
I tie the bottom of my shirt so only the neckline is open. Thank fuck for the excellent tailoring—the cotton is a close enough weave to keep most things out but just loose enough that I will be able to breathe a little. I slip my head through the neck hole, tying the arms to keep it in place, and my makeshift mask is ready.
It’s now or never.
“Here I come, Lilyana,” I say aloud. “Hold on, baby girl. Just hold on.”
Despite my limited range of motion, the coffin lid is no match for me. Each impact is drowned out only by my hammering heart.
Thud. Crack. A rumbling patter as soil trickles onto my feet.
Another kick. A splintering crunch and a flood as dirt starts to pour in. I push it to the bottom of the coffin with one foot, groping around in the inky blackness with the other, feeling for the gap.
There it is. I push my boot into the gash and shove hard, the wood cleaving like an earthquake toward my head. Shards of broken pine pierce my skin as I clutch the rough edge, breaking the coffin lid in two, and the soil floods in.
The space at my feet fills up fast, and I begin to scoop with my hands, pushing dirt to the sides. The remnants of the coffin lid protect my head somewhat, and as the ground shifts around me like sand, I take advantage of the pressure release and attempt to sit up. The earth rushes into the gap behind me, and I claw for the surface, using a piece of the lid like an oar and directing the soil away from my head. My feet are beneath me all at once, and I find some purchase on the side of the grave, my fingers digging into the compacted dirt.
I hold my breath; there’ll be no air until I see some light. I feel like I’m trying to drag myself out of Hell, just like I said I would.
A bright bolt hits me, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m dead after all. Yeah, right, asshole. That’s your salvation coming to claim you? Don’t bet on it.
I thrust my hands above me, feeling the cold night air. I scramble around blindly until my clutching hands grab grass and weeds.
I have enough upper body strength to haul myself out of the grave and onto the wet ground. It’s not until I snatch the shirt off my head and heave an agonizing breath that I realize I’m still alive.
It starts to rain, and I roll onto my back, the water running over my bare skin. I’m so fucking cold.
I glance at the grave. Thank fuck it didn’t rain any sooner, or I’d never have been able to get out. The drizzle builds into a solid downpour, packing the earth into mud. It already appears as though nothing disturbed it.
I gotta get up. Got to get to Lilyana. If Timur has hurt her, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. The very thought short-circuits my brain, and instead of coherent plans for vengeance, all I can see is a murderous red mist of rage.
I turn my head and see the name on the gravestone, illuminated by the moonlight as it breaks through the clouds.
Yaros Nechayev
This is my father’s grave. The bones I lay upon were his.
Tears blur my vision, and I howl at the endless void of the sky, my cries echoing off the stones.
Papa was flawed; he didn’t always make good choices, but he was there for me. He loved me, and I never got to say goodbye. I didn’t tell him I appreciated everything he went through to keep us together after Mom left.
I have so much I want to ask him. Was he certain his ex killed my mother? From what Timur said, his mom was unhinged, so Papa must have chosen to flee with me rather than risk our lives by confronting her. But he turned his back on his first son, too. Papa would be heartbroken if he knew what he’d set in motion with that fateful decision.
