Creepypasta #1223: I Just Woke Up And I'm Starving
I wake up and it’s pitch black.
I furrow my brow, confused; normally, there’s a little light leaking through the window blinds from the street light down below, so my room is never completely dark.
But this is black; so dark that I can’t see an inch in front of me.
I go to raise my hand up, to wave it around in front of my face, trying to test this darkness, when it hits the ceiling.
My confusion deepens as I press my hand up, placing it flat on the surface in front of me. It’s sturdy and soft. I run my hand up and down it, feeling the velvet beneath my fingers, hitting small bumps and feeling them fall, some bouncing on my chest and stomach.
I move my hand to the right, feeling the velvet abruptly cut off. I run my hand past it, feeling a small space of wood, before a wall comes up, stopping me. I run my hand down the new wall, feeling more softness. I realize my fingers are coated in dust.
Panic begins to well up in my throat as I raise my left hand, feeling the exact same thing on the other side to me. More velvet covered walls, barely giving me any room to move.
I kick my feet; I can hear the dull sound of them connecting with the roof. There’s no reverb or echo of the noise, just a quiet ‘thump’ each time they make contact.
You’re in a coffin. My mind whispers, cutting through the screams that are beginning to form in my throat. You’re in a coffin and you’re probably six feet under.
I can hardly swallow, let alone breath at this realization before I lose control.
I’m kicking and hitting as much as I can, hearing my struggle as I hit the velvet linings of my coffin. “I’m not dead!” I scream, the sound suddenly so loud that I momentarily pause, surprised to hear my own voice, before I pick up again, punching the lid. “Bring me up! I’m not dead!”
I’m not sure how long I fought my own coffin for; it could’ve been minutes or hours. All I could focus on was the feeling of confinement against my limbs and the rush of blood in my ears, reminding me that I was alive. I was breathing, my heart beating fiercely against my rib cage. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Somebody has to know that this wasn’t right. Somebody had to be near by, who could hear my struggle and screams, somehow through the wood and fabric and possible dirt.
It wasn’t until my arms gave out that I gave up, letting them fall limply to my side, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I caught my breath, my mind racing as I tried to figure out my next move.
Then I felt it, something crawling up my neck, barely touching my cheek before I lost it again.
I thrashed with renewed energy as much as I could in the small space, feeling it slide off me. I quickly reach up, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, catching it. I already know what it is, so I’m not surprised as it begins to wiggle, trying to free itself. I’m expecting a worm, my mind conjuring film scenes of skeletons crawling with them.
I’m surprised as I feel little legs scrambling at my fingers and a hard exoskeleton, protecting the soft bug underneath.
Disgusted, I fling it away from me, realizing what I had thought before was bumps along the roof (of your coffin prompts my mind) was actually insects.
My skin crawls as I remember them falling on me.
But I can’t do anything as they continue to criss and cross my body, the sensation of their movement sending constant goosebumps up my arms and legs.
I lay there, trying to be completely still. I’m not sure how long I did. All I can really remember is silently begging the creepy-crawlies to stay away from my face, particularly my ears.
My mind, on the other hand, continued to race.
Can I get out? Can I get free? What if I punch my way out? Would my hand break before that would happen? If I keep yelling, will someone hear me? Will I run out of air down here? Am I going to die here? Will anyone ever know that I was alive when they buried me?
How long had I been in here for?