Buried

Buried


December 15, 2016

I had gone to bed last night at the regular time.  Made sure that the door was locked, windows shut, all the lights had been turned off.  I don’t have any alarm systems so I didn’t have to worry about making sure that was on.  No pets, no partners, I live alone and I like it that way.  If there are dishes in the sink when I wake up in the morning I only have myself to blame.  When I woke up this morning I was seriously wondering who it was I could blame.

Waking up not being able to move much is at first a little annoying.  Feeling like you are trapped in your own blankets starts your day out feeling annoyed.  That is how my day started, sort of.  I could not raise my knees up and I could not get my arms to stretch out to either side of me.  I knew that this quilt or comforter or duvet cover whatever it was called was going to be trouble from the moment I picked it up.  It was the color, burnt orange of all things, it was one of those things that I liked when I got it but when I got it home it was a pain in the ass to have to deal with.  Ever try to stuff something inside of something else and neither one of the things wanted to be stuffed or to be used as stuffing?  Yes, that is what I found out when I tried to put the thing inside of the other thing.  It finally worked but it too me over an hour to get that done.

So, here I am, lying in bed, duvet cover causing me to feel claustrophobic, and I seriously feel trapped inside of my own bed.  That is the moment I realize two things.  I really have to use the can and that I feel damp.  The two things did more or less happen at the same time and I immediately started to wonder if the dampness and having to use the can was somehow oddly related.  I decided this might be a good time to open my eyes.  Oh, you are wondering why I haven’t opened my eyes yet?  Simple, once you do, the eye opening, you can’t go back to sleep until you do, something.  For me, most mornings, it is can use.
I open my eyes and I see that the comforter is over my head and that it is really dark outside.  There is no light whatsoever coming in through the windows, the curtains, and finally this blasted tie me up duvet.  It is black as pitch under this duvet and that means it is black as pitch outside.  That can mean only one thing, well at least to me, it must be 2am or something and I woke up way too soon.  I probably should not have had that can of diet soda before I went to bed.  I was thirsty, sue me.

I started to turn so I could swing my feet off the side of the bed, the bed was four inches higher than I always expected it to be so when I got into bed there were times that I felt that I needed to jump up.  So, when I got off the bed in the morning I also took an extra second to make sure my feet actually hit the floor where the floor was and not an inch or two higher than that.  I had stumbled a time or two and almost smacked my face into the wall next to the bed so I had learned my lesson.
I started to move and I couldn’t.  I was still tangled up inside of the duvet.  Oh, what the hell was going on here with this thing.  How had I wrapped myself so far up and into this cover that I could not even get out of bed?  I started to kick my feet to see if I could untangle or at least give me a little bit of room to get my legs out and I noticed that my feet weren’t tangled around the blasted quilt but that it had wrapped around me.

Trying to move my arms, hands to get a grip they were, both arms, both hands at my sides and I could not get them to move up.  Oh, I had sensations in them, they weren’t asleep or numb, I was in some sort of cocoon that stopped me from moving my hands and arms up or across or away from my body.  I was starting to get weirded out now.  Someone had broken into my apartment and had drugged me, taken out my liver, kidneys and spleen, trussed me up in a blanket or something and I couldn’t move.  I was going to have to get myself a dog or a girlfriend when I got out of this so I would not be sleeping alone in my apartment.  Maybe an attack hamster I had read a couple of books where hamsters made good pets.  Plus, that would be cheaper than a dog or a girlfriend.

Starting to wiggle to the left and right I found that I was also not in bed because there were walls of some sort on either side of me.  I could not sit up because of the same sort of wall.  It was not overly hard, I didn’t hit my head-on concrete, but it was not all that giving either.  Starting to rock back and forth, back and forth I was able to get my right hand un-trapped from next to my body and I could get it to move to my stomach and back again.  Great I could masturbate, probably, but this was not getting me out nor was it helping with the mounting problem that I had to use the bathroom.  Amazing where your mind goes when you feel that you have no control over anything, mine immediately went to self-sexual gratification.

Once I had my right hand moving I started to check myself out for open wounds, blood dripping, scars and I could not find any in my limited reach.  At least I was not bleeding to death and it seemed I had no opened wounds so I would seem to have my body parts intact so I would take that as a win.
I started screaming at that point.  “Help, Help, I’ve been attacked by a giant duvet cover and I can’t get out!”  I tried that for about five minutes but it had absolutely no effect on my situation.  I could lay here in self-pity or I could try to do something about the situation.  I, being twenty-three years old laid there for about twenty minutes wondering why no one was coming to rescue me, why had this happened to me, and was trying to desperately not think about having to use the bathroom.
When no one came, no one seems to care, and I was done with my whole self-pitying sense of being I thought I might as well rescue myself.  Using my freed right hand, I started to move that around inside of the duvet and found that if I reached over my head I felt something a bit odd.  It felt a little like a hole of some sort of another.  I kept pushing my hand up until I felt that I could push past the hole, for some reason I suddenly had a vision that I was inside of my own ass and I was trying to poop myself out.  Don’t ask, my mind is just weird and wired that way.

I pushed, pushed and pushed and my one finger became two fingers, and then three and finally a fist and I pushed my hand out of the hole and wiggled it around some. Then I moved my hand around more and I hit what felt like dirt as well as making the hole bigger.  I kept doing that, moving my hand, wrist, forearm and that made the hole bigger and I kept hitting dirt.  Moving my hand like that was enough that the hole got even bigger and finally I could move my left hand too.  Plus the added bonus, I could, with some wiggling, move the duvet, which after closer consideration I actually found out that it was some sort of linen bag, off my head, over my shoulders and down to my waist.  I had both hands free, both arms, pretty much to the elbows free.  I could move them around.  This quickly became less of a good thing and I have to admit for about five minutes I freaked out.  I seemed to be in a hole, covered in dirt.  The only explanation I had was that I had been buried, thought I was dead?  Damn, I hope they thought I was dead if I was buried alive that puts in a whole new line of sick and left here underground.

Right then, right there, I lost it.  I screamed, yelled, cried, beat on the sides of the hole I was in and started to beat on the ceiling of the hole I was in.  I was able to get my own attention when some of the ceiling fell on my face and that woke me up that if I wasn’t careful that I might wind up suffocating on dirt.
I started coughing, realizing that I now had a second, third, and fourth problem.  Where was, I getting air from?  I am buried, it would seem underground, did I just use up an hours’ worth, minutes, a day with my little tantrum?  That got my whack-a-mole nature into check.  My fear meter was suddenly banging into the red instead of the safety of the green.  Take a moment, take stock, you can do this was suddenly my mantra.

I took slow, shallow breaths because I really did not know if I had any air left.  It was hot in here now I realized and I was sweating.  Good maybe I could sweat away my pee I could only hope.  Luckily the fear of suffocating had calmed my need for the use of a urinal.

Alright, if I had been able to bring the roof down on me by beating on the dirt perhaps I could make a hole big enough that first I could get some air in here, then after that I could work on getting myself out of here.  There had been more than enough movies on how to get out of things like this.  I also wish that I had been one of those people that had seen one of those movies.  I never found them all that interesting, before now, because it was either going to be they saved the person, or they died from asphyxiation.  Since I was not a hot sixteen-year-old heiress I didn’t think anyone was coming to rescue me so that left that I got myself out or I died.  You can guess which one I picked.

My right hand seemed to be a big stronger than my left.  I had to assume, don’t say it, that it was because it was the one I had gotten out first.  Slowly I started to push up and into the dirt above my head, as far up and above my head as I could go.  I was hoping that the dirt would then fall on my hair or that bit of the hole that I was in where there was no head.  Pushing, pushing, grasping a bit of dirt and then pulled it back down.  Of course, it did not go the way I had planned.  I got a face full of dirt more often than I did not but I was able, after the third dirt sandwich I received to put my left arm over my mouth and nose to keep the worst of it out.

It took me about six days, no I have no idea how long it took but it felt like forever before I pushed through the dirt and I couldn’t suddenly feel anymore dirt above my hand, I was OUT!  Taking a moment to relish that I had air now I laid there, in my hole, and wept.  There was no other word for it.  I also much to my chagrin peed.
Can’t say how long it took me to pull enough dirt down into my hole before I could lean forward and move my body up so my head was out of the hole.  After that though I could get both arms out and moving the dirt around was a lot simpler at that point.  Pulling myself out of the hole I looked around.  Having to admit to myself I had an image in my head on what to expect.  Pulling myself out of a gardening exhibit at what looked like a big box store was not what I expected at all.

Summary

What it means to really be sleeping alone

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