When Willow woke up, she could not see anything. She went to sleep in her bed the night before, only to wake up in an abyss. Willow could feel a soft velvety texture as she ran her hands around. There were walls on either side of her. Where was she? Is this a box? Is this a coffin, even? Why would someone do this to her? Willow had begun to panic. Her heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard; deep shallow breaths. Her lungs burned, heart beating rapidly, and she clawed at the top of the wooden box. Blood trickled down her arms, some of it splattering into her mouth. The metallic taste sent her stomach into a whirlwind. Her stomach was queasy from it. A sweet smell caught her attention. The fumes filling her nose as she inhaled again. Was that gasoline? Her fingers grazed a small wooden object: a match. Well, she might as well. How else was she going to escape this hell? She struck the match on the top of the box as the remaining air caught fire. Willow was no more.
YOU ARE READING
Buried Alive
HorrorNo one has to read this unless they feel like giving some constructive criticism. I've been experiencing writers block lately that I can't seem to shake and I remembered this exercise from 9th grade English class. Hopefully, it helps a little bit.
