Coffin
Written in Emberville’s class on How to Write Objects
The air inside the coffin was stifling, hot and barely breathable. Rose could smell the staleness before she fully roused. The back of her brain, the part that always tried to warn her off of stupid stunts, quailed as she opened her eyes to blackness. It shrieked in terror moments before her conscious brain caught up.
He’d buried her.
She started feeling around, trying to see if there was a gap or an imperfection she could exploit to get out. She wanted to scream, but she wasn’t sure how much air she had to scream with. She learned early on that screaming never improved a situation, and often only encouraged those tormenting her.
Her finger didn’t feel quite right. She paused in her searching to feel what was different.
The ring. It was gone.
He’d stolen her only connection to her grandmother.
And, given the soreness of her body, took other things while she was out.
She couldn’t worry about that now. She could take a bath when she’d dug herself out of this mess. She could contemplate how she would kill Peter when she had the air back.
He’d probably pissed on the grave, too.
She couldn’t focus on how Peter had bested her. Shame and humiliation could come later, when she realized she’d let her guard down to the exact wrong person. Right now, there was wood and dirt and she had a ragged dress and a diminishing supply of air.
What would Grandmother do?
Rose heard her groan loud in her own ears. She knew what her grandmother would say.
“Use the magic.”
Oh, there were costs. She didn’t relish the idea of paying for what she was about to do.
Then, she hadn’t relished her time with Peter either. It seemed like he was always one step ahead.
Maybe he was paying those costs that Rose had been so careful to avoid.
If he was, maybe she could find his weakness after all.
Quietly, deliberately, Rose incanted a charm. It wasn’t the first one her grandmother taught her, and it wasn’t the most powerful one either. She wasn’t even sure it would work the way she wanted it to. Magic was slippery that way.
At first she thought it hadn’t worked. Her breath came slow and labored as she lie asphyxiating in a coffin. She feared asphyxiation but it wasn’t by hands around her neck, so that was something.
Slowly Rose’s hope faded. Peter had bested her, and no one would care except him. He would prance around like a poncy little prick, and no one would care about the death of one rose in the garden.
When she opened her eyes, she gasped. The chill night air was cool on her skin, causing her body to shiver.
A curious face constructed from the features of mismatched animals stared at her.
“Took you a bit.” It said.
“I could say the same,” Rose said.
“You owe me.” The little apparition said. It’s claws were grimy with graveyard dirt.
“What do you want?” Rose asked.
“I want the coffin.” It said, pointing behind her.
The casket yawned open, revealing a dark silk interior.
Rose hesitated. “Why?”
“It’s something to put you in when you die,” it chirped.
Rose realized that she had a lot to learn about summoning. “Take it. I never want to see it again.”
The monster grinned. “Don’t worry, you won’t.”
This unedited, haunting story was written in our Emberville class on How to Write Objects by Tina. Tell us, how do you use objects to tell your story?
