I wake up coughing. There's something in my mouth, my lungs, my eyes. What is it? What is it? I cough harder. I can't see. It tastes gross, like... dirt? Why is there dirt in my mouth? It's hard to hear, everything's muffled. Do I hear talking? Are there people? Maybe they can help!

"Please! Help! I'm down here!!! HELP!"

The talking doesn't stop. I keep yelling between coughing fits, praying they'll help me. Why aren't they digging me up? Why can't I move my arms, my legs, my.. anything?

"PLEASE!! I'M DOWN HERE! PLEASE!"

Are my lips even moving? Are the words even coming out? I try wiggling my fingers, my toes, but it's hard to tell if anything's actually moving or it's just in my head. I'm scared. It's cold. The dirt's still falling onto me. Why can't I stop it? What's happening? Why are they doing this to me?

I think I felt my eyelid twitch! I try moving my toes again. No luck. Maybe my fingers again? My pinky! It moved! I want to cry, but I don't think I can right now. I slowly start being able to move again. One finger at a time, one toe at a time, piece by piece I feel my body start to finally cooperate.. I just hope it's not too late.

The dirt's starting to get heavy now. No light's peaking through anymore. I gotta work fast! Come on, body, move! Move! MOVE! I feel my arm raise with some added effort. I raise my other arm, and start clawing through the dirt. It just keeps falling, almost molding itself around my hands. Maybe if I'm fast enough.. I claw like my life depended on it, because it does.. The dirt coming down faster now; the faster I move the faster it moves. It's getting really heavy now, it hurts my chest. It's difficult to get my arms back down to my sides. Please!! I don't want to die like this! I keep fighting, keep trying. I-I think I hear something! Not talking this time. A siren? A dog? I-I can't make out what it is, it's so far away. I can't breathe, god I can't breathe!

I shoot up with a jolt, covered in sweat and alarm blaring. I'm so panicked I just yank the plug from the wall and let the whole thing tumble to the floor. I still can't breathe, I'm hyperventilating. I feel a hand on my back; I jump up too fast and fall to the floor. "Don't touch me! Fuck you, don't touch me!"

"Baby, shh, it's okay.. You're okay, it was just a dream" John said calmly, full of worry in his voice. "You're safe, you're home.. It's okay; I promise I won't hurt you."

I slowly start to realize what's going on, where I am, who he is. I'm in my bedroom, he's my boyfriend, I had a bad dream... The bad dream. I'm still scared, shaking and crying. I get startled when I feel the wall against my back; I didn't even realize I was backing away from him.. I curl up into a ball, trying to be as small as I feel. "John," I sob into my knees, "I-I'm scared... They were burying me, John.." I hear him shh-ing me, letting me know where he is in the room without looking up, so I know he's walking towards me.. "I can taste it, hear their voices.. They wouldn't stop.."

He reaches me. I can't speak through the sobs anymore when I feel his arm around me; I just completely break down into a puddle in his lap. He always knows what to do when I get this way. He knows how tight to hold me, how to shush me without making me feel silenced, when to just allow me to cry it out.. Sometimes, particularly at times like this, I feel like he's too good for me, too good for all my baggage.

"You're safe now, Bunny.. They can't hurt you again. You made it out, remember?" he whispers in my ear. I nod slightly. Yes, Yes I do remember now. I remember the men taking me when I was walking back to my dorm after class. They had followed me for weeks; I could feel their eyes on me, but I never saw them coming. Everyone thought I was crazy, that I was just being paranoid.. They didn't think that after I didn't show up at home that day.

They kept drugging me; at first, I passed out right away from the drugs, then I guess they messed around with the dosage or something, because eventually I'd be paralyzed from the injection but stayed conscious. I could feel them, their hands on me... I don't want to think about what else they did.

After what felt like years with them (found out later it was only a week), They beat me so hard I passed out. I thought they killed me, to be honest... I wish they had, sometimes. But no, they didn't. They took me outside the abandoned cabin they kept me in, far away from it, and started to bury me. I did wake up when they were in the middle of burying me, but there already was too much dirt to try and sift through. I wish I could say I was smart, held my breath as long as I could, but I immediately panicked. I tried to scream but just breathed in dirt instead (highly recommend not breathing dirt, it's not a fun experience.. Though, I suppose, neither is getting kidnapped). I kept trying to gasp for air, cough, something, but just couldn't manage it.

The men who took me didn't realize there was a neighboring cabin that regularly gets rented out. A hunter and his son were in those woods, looking for game; instead, they found two men in the middle of the woods, surrounding a suspiciously moving mound of soil. I don't believe in a god, especially after everything I went through, but if there was a god up there, he must've decided I suffered enough, took pity on me, what have you. Either that or just dumb luck. Regardless of what higher power brought them to me, I'm glad they were there.

My kidnappers didn't even bother fighting, they just ran immediately. I found out later the son was going to go after the men, but his dad told him it'd be easier to get me out if they both dug. And dug they did.

I wasn't conscious when they got me out of the ground. Harold, the dad, got the dirt out of my mouth and throat the best he could and started CPR, while his son ran for help. By the time I made it back to this mortal plane, I was in the ambulance surrounded by scrambling E.M.T.s.

All the doctors, nurses, anyone who saw me really, rambled on and on about how strong I am, how it's a miracle I didn't die in those woods. John was a nurse at the time; it was his first week in that hospital. He was the first one who didn't praise God or make me sound like a warrior or something. Instead, the first thing he said to me was, "Damn, you went through hell... Let's see what we can do to make things better, shall we?". Then he got to work; he's always been to the point like that.

I didn't date him right away, had to go through my shit first. I reunited with Harold and his son, Tom, about a month or two after I left the hospital. Started sleeping with Tom that night; I guess I thought I could fuck away the pain... Come to find out, men who sleep with a victim that quickly after saving her tend to not be the greatest.. He wasn't abusive or anything, but he formed some god complex or something, which I surely wasn't going to stay and stroke. I ended that as quickly as it started.

I started drinking after that. I just... needed to forget for awhile. It never worked, of course; I'd just become a blubbering mess hiding in my bathtub so no one would find me. It was a good couple of years before John popped back into my life. He found me blacked out in the men's restroom of our local pub. I remember waking up in his bed with a cold (unopen) bottle of water and a pack of Advil on the bedside table. He's always been kind to me, caring without treating me like a child.

He made me breakfast that day; it was the first time in who knows how long that someone's made my breakfast for me. The food was mediocre, but the thought and effort he put into it made it the best meal I've ever had. I kept telling myself I'd leave the second he left the room, but I didn't for some reason... I suppose I always felt safe with him, like I could trust him despite all that I went through. I cleaned his apartment while he went to work (even his living space was comforting to be around). He let me stay there in the spare room, until I got back to my feet; his only condition was that I start trying to take better care of myself. I started going to therapy, cut back on the drinking, even went back to finish college, all because he gave me that chance.

I never did move out of his place, technically; at some point, I don't know when, it turned into our place and not just his. We didn't start dating for awhile, a year and a half into my sobriety to be exact. Even though we lived together, we still took it slow. We didn't have our first kiss until the fifth date, didn't have sex until six months of dating.. After every date, he'd stop me outside of my room, talk about how great of a time he had, how he was glad I made it home safe, and kissed me goodnight. He's the only person I allow to take care of me, comfort me, talk to me about that week of nightmare fuel. It's been several years since I first got taken, but I still get nightmares from it; my therapist says there's a good chance I might always feel the effects of what I went through. Luckily, the nightmares are happening less and less. And at least I'll always have John to guide me through the darkness, no matter how thick it may seem.