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Grave
London
I’ve been buried alive.
Panic is a living being inside this tomb with me—the only thing telling me that I’m still alive in the pitch-black. I press my palms to the wood. My breaths bounce back at me from the lid, my chest on fire as the air is sucked away.
Splinters snag my skin. The pain sharpens my senses.
He can’t let me die.
But I’ve watched the videos. I’ve witnessed the lengths Grayson has gone to in order to deliver his punishments.
Dread rises within me anew, and I bang against the wood, desperate to taste fresh air. “Help!”
A creek from the wood sends dirt into my mouth and eyes. I wipe at my face in a panic. My elbows knock the sides of the crate. I feel those sides closing in. The box is shrinking, swallowing me. Shit. I push harder against the lid, my forearms burning from the strain.
More dirt rains down. I taste the grit between my teeth and turn my head to spit. Between anxious breaths, I hear the sound of things crawling alongside the box. Moving through the loose dirt, trying to find a way in. Waiting for their food to rot.
Oh, God. I can’t die like this.
The burden of an unfinished life is a dense weight bearing down on my chest. The painful compression heightens my anxiety until I’m hyperventilating.
Each rapid, labored breath is drawn with the knowledge that it could be my last. Every gasp is laced with less and less of the vital oxygen my lungs crave.
Calm down.
I chant this in my head as I hold a breath, forcing myself to relax—to still every muscle and organ clamoring for air.
Breathe.
I take in a shallow breath. Slow and steady, my lips trembling. Tears leak out the corners of my eyes, and my body tingles, adrenaline flooding my system. The lightheadedness transitions into a euphoric tranquility.
I linger this way for a while. Listening to my slow breaths. The blackness a thick and disembodying nightmare. Gauzy cotton webs my mind, detached. For what feels like hours, I alter between two stages. Panic and docile acceptance.
As my thoughts drift, all the things I’ve put off doing rush forward. Unfulfilled goals. Dreams. Happiness.
A weak laugh slips free. I coached my patients not to reach for something so flimsy and meaningless as happiness—it’s an idea, not a goal. And yet here I am, staring death in the face, wishing I’d been a little more frivolous and happy.
But there was never any answer to that question, either. The one everyone asks themselves: what will make me happy? A husband? A child? I scoff at myself. I don’t regret either, not really. I never could have shared myself or my time with something so demanding as motherhood.
Still, the fact that chance is being stolen away rocks through me, a vicious reminder that I chose Grayson. I chose this fate.
I draw in a breath to fill my lungs and blink against the darkness. Regret is a weakness. I can’t afford to be weak.
Besides, there are more frightening realities to contend with than my shallow regrets.
The buried bodies in the backyard of the land in my name, that I always planned to move, to dispose of…and now that, too, is being decided for me. The girls will be found. Someone will purchase my family home and tear it down. Rebuild. They’ll dig that dead garden up and my legacy will be remembered as a horror story, rather than the work I’ve devoted my short and vain life to.
With that realization comes a panic attack that consumes every sense. The blackness closes in, scrapes and sounds magnified, the feel of bugs crawling under my skin retches a fiery scream from my throat.
The calm waters of my acceptance rebels. A storm thunders through me as I crash against the boards. My arms flail, my feet thrash. My fingers claw at the wooden deathtrap, raking up splinters beneath my nails. I can almost scent the metallic tang of blood in the thin, musty air, and I become a rabid animal fighting for freedom.
Determined, I fight against my prison, and my foot kicks an object. It doesn’t register right away, my panic too far gone, gripping my body and mind in a constricting vise. I turn onto my side and brace my shoulder against the lid, then I stop moving. I listen to the sound of my breathing, amplified in the confined space. Think. Think. Think.
I’ve analyzed Grayson for months. I’ve gotten inside his head. I understand him. I have an advantage over the rest of his victims. He has rules, and his disorder demands that he abide by them.
With three deep breaths, I quell the dread and slow my breathing. Reserve oxygen. Then I calmly use my foot to push the small object upward. Once it’s near my knee, I reach down and grab it.
