Abbey Hill Literary 4th Quarter: First Place Winner
(untitled entry)
by Holly Campbell
She emerged from sleep slowly, conscious thought drifting in and out like a drowning man bobbing above and below the surface. She first noticed pain—pain everywhere, nibbling at some places, gnawing at others.
Next she noticed the cold: a dewy, slicing cold. She felt immersed and too dry at the same time. Startled, she sucked in a sudden breath through her nose and choked, the cough dislodging the dry, prickly thing in her throat, but stumbling at her lips. They wouldn’t part.
She opened her eyes...tried to. They wouldn’t open.
She struggled to sort through the fog swirling in her mind and prioritize her biggest questions. First: where was she? No, perhaps that was second. First: who was she? How could she not know that? No name sprang to her mind, no concrete memories. She’d had a nightmare, she remembered that. Walking down a dimly-lit street late at night, the heels of her shoes rapping a sharp, staccato rhythm that echoed in the emptiness surrounding her. And then, that man.
Her heart jumped, thumping unevenly before settling into a steady rhythm. She heard and felt its echo.
Blood too thick trudged through veins too thin and then came the odd, yet familiar feeling of pins and needles.
She flexed her fingers, waxy skin sliding across the knuckles. They cracked. But at least they moved...up along walls on either side of her...plucking at smooth fabric...all the way around...right in front of her...What the hell?
She opened her eyes and this time they responded, but opened to darkness so complete, they may as well have stayed closed.
She tried to scream, but her lips once again refused exit to the air. Frantic, she slipped her tongue along the inside of her mouth, toying with some sort of fibrous material. Knots? Thread? Were they...?
She wrenched her lips apart, flesh tearing in chunks. Flakes of congealed blood dropped on her tongue, but even as she started to spit them out, fresh blood streamed from her ragged lips, spilling into her mouth. She gulped greedily, the pulpy liquid soothing the burning of her throat, but soon the spill slowed, trickling like a leaky faucet. She sucked on her lips, wanting more. It disgusted her, but she was thirsty. So thirsty.
The blood pulsing through her seemed to thin. Her muscles relaxed, though the pain stayed. She swallowed past the ache in her throat and tried to sort through her thoughts once again. The haze did not lift, but parted slightly, like a breeze blowing through smoke. Katie. That was her name. Katie. She tried to say it aloud, her voice little more than a croak. She needed a drink. She was so thirsty.
Once again she raised her arms to explore her surroundings. No change there—just the cool, slightly damp satin. She pushed against the lid, her wrists popping arthritically. What was she doing here?
She knew that question was least important; more pressing—how could she get out? But she wanted to know, wanted to remember. The oppressive weight of the casket was tangible, giving weight to the lack of oxygen. How long did she have? She hoped not too long. Better to die of suffocation than thirst.
With a moan she closed her eyes and turned her head to the side.
So her name was Katie. What else? She had red hair—she could remember that. She remembered someone liked to run his fingers through it and whenever he did, goose-bumps popped up on her arms and neck. She scrunched her face, trying to remember more, but she couldn’t.
Why was she alive? Her throat flamed, as though all the pain in the rest of her body was merely an extension of that pain and instead of easing, it simply retreated to the source. She flexed her fingers again, the skin still waxy and like she wore an oversized suit rather than flesh.
“Paul.” His name came to her and she said it aloud, surprised by the strange duality of her tone. She said his name again, reaching up with one hand to touch her hair. It felt like straw; he wouldn’t like to touch it now.
How could he bury her?
Her frown was deep, pulling on the stiff facial muscles. She’d ask him about that later...after she got out. And she would get out. She pushed on the lid again. This time the pop came from the casket and Katie grinned. She would ask him first thing. No, not first thing.
First, she would drink.
She folded her arms across her stomach, waiting...waiting until she felt strong enough for the next push, or waiting for her last breath—whichever came first, all she could do was wait. As she waited, her thoughts turned to the nightmare again. That dimly-lit street felt familiar, a place she’d visited before—whether in another dream or in reality, she didn’t know. She did know that it did not usually frighten her. It was unexceptional: lined on both sides with overpriced, identical houses, well-manicured lawns, and rundown sidewalks. The street lamps barely worked, but no one stepped out after dark anyway. Front windows glowed with the warmth of TV screens. She remembered that was her plan...watch TV with Paul...
It was a dream, wasn’t it?
Her heart jumped again, but no extra blood flowed through her veins. Her throat burned.
That man, standing at the corner, watched as she walked to her house. She remembered she shivered, though not cold. Why had she stepped outside? Why did she leave the safety of her home? She remembered everything now—almost everything. She couldn’t remember what happened next. She knew she’d reached the end of the street, where she’d have to cross to get to her house, when he started walking toward her. Everything else was darkness.
She took a deep breath, the air scraping her throat. She coughed, wincing. She was so thirsty.
She forced her thoughts away from the man on the street corner, away from Paul, away from all memories. The only thing that mattered now was getting out. The sooner she figured out how, the sooner she could drink and the sooner her throat would cease burning. She pressed her palms flat against the casket’s lid, waited, and then heaved upward. The earth moaned, the casket cracking. With one hand, she tore at the fabric. Clumps of dirt dropped on her chest and neck. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and pushed again, not caring if the weight of the dirt crushed her. If she had the strength to bust through the casket, she could probably find the strength to swim through the earth; if not...well, better to die this way than of thirst.
Another push. The crack widened and deepened. More dirt plopped down, most of it on her stomach. Her body should have cracked beneath its crushing weight, but instead her body pushed against it, unhurt. She pulled at splinters of wood, digging a space wide enough, ignoring the pouring dirt. Still gripping the wood, she pulled herself through and clawed desperately, trusting she headed toward the surface, but not caring much either way. She just moved, legs kicking like a swimmer, fingers gripping like a rock climber. And then, air kissed her hands. She pulled, her head emerging slowly. Wind slapped the hair against her face and she opened her eyes. The stars burned her eyes.
She pulled the rest of her body out, barely breathing above normal from the exertion. She felt stronger than she had just minutes ago, strength growing exponentially by the second. She didn’t take more than a moment to wonder at it...nothing really mattered right now except going home. Going home to Paul. To ask him how he could bury her. How he could make the mistake.
Brushing the dirt from her face, she rose to her feet and strolled down the small, winding path in the cemetery. In the distance an engine purred and brakes screeched. Other than that, the street was quiet. It must be late, but she wasn’t tired. She’d never felt so alert.
She exited the cemetery, glancing around, peering for anything familiar. She knew the street, knew the way home from here. She started walking, grateful for the late hour; she knew she looked frightening, covered in mud, her lips scabbed, and her dress torn from the difficult journey through the earth.
Footsteps pattered to her left and she snapped her head in that direction, not seeing anyone. She squinted, identifying a narrow alley between two buildings across the street. Someone breathed heavily—she didn’t know how she heard it and really didn’t care. The breathing was scared...vulnerable—someone lost, young.
Her throat burned with a new rage.
She turned unconsciously toward the sound, quickening her pace, sprinting toward the footsteps.
The questions could wait. Home could wait. Paul could wait. First she needed to drink. She was thirsty.
So thirsty.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Holly Campbell began writing stories almost as soon as she could write. She earned her degree in Creative Writing and aspires to be a novelist. She resides with her husband and baby girl in Washington state.
JUDGE’S COMMENTS:
The author of this story successfully engages our senses with more than just visual imagery; the evocations of touch and taste make it particularly vivid—and tactile. By cleverly hinting at what has happened to Katie (the narrator) without stating outright what transformation has taken place, the author displays narrative confidence and an admirable trust in readers. This is a great example of successfully showing without telling. I would recommend that the author give this story a title, one that sets up (or even plays with) readers’ expectations about what will follow, or that sets a mood. Remember that readers often choose to read a short story (which rarely comes with a back cover blurb) by its title. This story responded to prompt 6.