My eyes opened to a darkness more complete than the depth of the dreamless sleep I had awoken from. I tried to sit up, gasping on the stale air and cracking my head into something made of stone. “No…” I whispered as my panicked brain began to run through the possibilities. The list held precious few items, and the terror of imminent suffocation crossed out the possibility of it just being a horrible dream. I raised my arms to feel the stone surface above me, testing its weight. The slab didn’t budge against my efforts.

My heart raced in my chest, pounding a desperate cadence against my ribs. Everything was growing dull, my thoughts fuzzy. The air around me weighed upon me, heavy with heat and carbon dioxide. With a final, adrenaline-fueled burst, I shoved at the stone with every bit of strength I could muster. I’ve heard, somewhere, that a panicking mother can lift a car off her pinned child. That might be bullshit, but I know now that a panicking 20-year-old can push the lid of a stone coffin to one side.

I coughed as the relatively fresh air flooded my lungs, granting sharp edges to my painfully oxygen-deprived brain. The relief that flooded through me felt better than any drug. I laughed, the hoarse sound only bringing about a greater fit of laughter. Freedom was mine, salvation assured.

The musty taste of the air was my first clue that something else was wrong. I raised myself from the sarcophagus and took several shaky steps forward before hitting a wall. I felt my way around the cramped tomb but felt no method of egress. As I sank to the dusty floor, another laugh crept from my lips.

I was ever-appreciative of irony.