1. Grave Situation.
Botshelo opened her eyes to darkness.
Huh? What?
Had she gone blind?
She opened her mouth to scream but dirt and rock flooded in. Her chest heaved, struggling for air, but the weight of the earth crushed her lungs.
Her lungs felt like they were on fire. She tried to move; just a little, but the ground pressed down on her, keeping her in place. She screamed, the sound strangled in her throat. It dug its way up from her diaphragm and clawed its way up into the cavern of her mouth, just like how she wanted to claw her way out of her grave. She thought of the Bride from Kill Bill and how she managed to escape her way out of being buried alive, but she was lucky enough to have the privilege to be buried in a coffin. She had an air supply and enough room to punch her way out of the earth.
Air supply.
Botshelo knew screaming wasted air, but terror forced her to hyperventilate. Her chest heaved.
She felt hopeless. Useless. The soil smothered everything. No sounds. No comfort. Not even her own thoughts. Only the creeping realization: No one knows I’m here. No one will miss me.
Her breaths shallowed. Her head spun.
A distant ringing filled her ears.
Her fingers numbed. Cold crept in. Then finally, the last breath left her nostrils and she-
Move.
Her eyes shot open, a rush of air suddenly filling her lungs.
Dig!
The voice was coming from inside her head...but it wasn’t her own. This voice sounded raspy, like it hadn’t talked in a long time.
I can’t.
Just...try.
For the next few hours, she carved out space, only to have the earth swallow it back up. Again and again. Dig, collapse. Dig, collapse. Her arms ached, but she kept on pushing.
A sudden wave of dirt flowed onto her face, her tremendous efforts wiped out in just an instance, and she let out a wail.
Stop it, the voice said, and she did.
She clawed her way at the dirt above her with determination, rocks falling onto her face and into her nose but she just spat them out again but she could...feel...her body...slowing down...faltering...
Heat flared under her skin. Her fingers twitched, then clawed. Wild and desperate. The hunger inside her moved her body for her, dragging her toward the surface. She grunted and cried with effort and felt her body shifting, and then she was in a sitting position. Her body moved, and she was clawingandkicking her way up, the rocks and dirt filling up the hole where she had been laying.
She strained against the earth pinning her down until her left hand broke through the soil, and her body relaxed. The grip on her was gone. Her fingers, arms, and face found air. She pulled herself free and collapsed onto the damp earth, gasping for air. She breathed in too fast, too much, nearly choking.
After crawling through the silent darkness, she welcomed the early morning sky, still bruised with stars. A waxing crescent marked the sky. She had been buried underneath a tree. It stood alone near the mountains that lined the outskirts of Johannesburg, she realized, so she was near farms or suburbs.
She got her answer when she heard sprinkling water and turned to see a shirtless, chubby man with a hosepipe, silently watching from his backyard. He had paused for a sip before dragging the hose to wash his car.
Their eyes met. His mind screamed to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. He stood frozen as the small, filthy woman stumbled toward him. As she neared, he gasped and stepped back, but she stopped him, desperate.
“W-wait, Rra, please,” she held out her hand to stop him. Her throat was dry and sore, and she yearned for the feeling of wetness chasing away the dryness in her throat.
She noticed that her taupe, nearly grey hands were missing a couple of fingernails as they’d been ripped off when she was digging her way out of the earth.
Her dirty, scraped hands added to her bizarre look; her clothes were torn and the man noticed blood stains on her white-turned grey T-shirt behind all the dirt, mud and grime. One leg of her muddy, grey sweatpants had been ripped off from her earlier venture, showing off her scratched and bloodied leg.
One thing that captured his attention was the split in her head, a gaping wound still wet with blood, running just between her eyes.
He reached for his phone but paused. The police wouldn’t believe what he was seeing. Instead, he threw her the hose and ran inside, faster than he had in many years.
Botshelo caught the pipe, drinking carefully without touching the dirty rim. As she turned off the tap, her reflection in the window stopped her cold. Horror consumed her, and at last, she released the scream she had been holding in since being buried alive.
“I should be dead!” She cried out, fingering the edge of her wound. She tried studying the ugly wound but quickly turned away, the wet and dripping pink meat making her shudder in disgust.
It seemed like someone had taken an axe and driven it into her head.
The thought made her head ache, unlike her actual wound, which wasn’t pounding in pain.
What the hell was going on?!
She should’ve been dead.
Twice!
She’d survived both of the terrible ordeals she had undergone, whatever the first one may have been. Any other normal human being would’ve been gone, yet here she was. But why?
Hungry, the voice that was not hers said, reminding her that it was still there.
“I’m not hungry.”
I am not you.
Botshelo hesitantly turned to stare at her reflection in the window.
She never saw the russet-skinned girl with a short, raven-black afro, tired eyes, and full lips, only a smoky shadow in her place.
The swirling shadow formed a towering, eerie humanoid with a skeletal yet muscular build. Its unnaturally long arms ended in clawed fingers, its beast-like head stretched into twisted horns, and a sinister smile revealed sharp, menacing teeth.
Its glowing red eyes stared into Botshelo’s own and she shut hers.
“No no no...”
Her eyes shot open, and it was still there, smiling at her.
“No!” She cried again, clutching her hair in frustration.
I am hungry, the shadow’s grin grew wider.
