They were digging. I lay there, not quite sedated but not quite conscious either. To an outsider i may look like an astrologist talking a deep interest in the stars, a perplexed look goggling

at my features, like i had discovered how many protons a star had, or figured out how to breathe again, how to take forfilling breaths without shuddering as the the kife bobs. How to not twitch as i feel the blood being clogged, or how my organs are being peirced without my knowledge. The digging continues. I can see his face, light features almost glossy in the dark musty air, his hands clawing at the dirt hole, dirt imbedding itself beneath his nails, only to clump over his fingers once the space is filled. Seeing his nails makes me notice mine, dirt not as clumpy due to the boggy land theyre resting on. Although this only increases my discomfort as the dirt is spread like butter, ha. Ive even got a knife in me. And the hole he is digging is my bread, just waiting for me to be dropped into it so the earth can ingest me, use my flesh to nurish the ground. They say once one sense is gone, the others become stronger, i closed my eyes. I decompressed as i want to feel everything one last time. I want to feel the weight of my short hair as it rests over my forehead. I want to feel my shirt as it encloses me in a foren coldness. I want to feel pride and joy and hope and trust. I want to feel safety. I want to feel sadness and ignorance and anger. And as he turned me and i felt my body drop, i did. I felt it. One last time.