((Private Monologue: Due to location - Five feet, eleven inches below ground level))
*scrapescrapescrapescapeSNAP* "Damnit!"
'Don't waste breath. Don't swear, don't curse, don't /whine/. It's a fingernail, it'll grow back. How many was that, Jason? Count. You're down to thumbs, aren't you? Wood's pretty thick..
The dark-haired youth shakes his head, sweat dripping down his face. The heat of the stuffy small coffin is far too stifling for him, and as his mind analazyes the why ('Carbon dioxide levels are high, you're breathing too much, Jason') his fingers seem to be lead weights. Er, bloody lead weights. Hands scrabbling against the slick wood of the surface, splinters digging into the pads of his fingers as he tears off another small strip of wood.
He can't take the entirety of the lid off. It'd be impossible, in the time he's given. Instead, he's tried to get a thin strip of wood out about a quarter the way down the lid of the box. And then, he lets the weight of the grave's dirt above do its work.
There's a crubmling, a creaking, and a cracking. Above him, the grass that covers his grave sinks into the ground a half-foot.
'Digging through dirt.. it's gotta be easier than digging through wood. Go, damnit, go!'
'Don't waste breath. Don't swear, don't curse, don't /whine/. It's a fingernail, it'll grow back. How many was that, Jason? Count. You're down to thumbs, aren't you? Wood's pretty thick..
The dark-haired youth shakes his head, sweat dripping down his face. The heat of the stuffy small coffin is far too stifling for him, and as his mind analazyes the why ('Carbon dioxide levels are high, you're breathing too much, Jason') his fingers seem to be lead weights. Er, bloody lead weights. Hands scrabbling against the slick wood of the surface, splinters digging into the pads of his fingers as he tears off another small strip of wood.
He can't take the entirety of the lid off. It'd be impossible, in the time he's given. Instead, he's tried to get a thin strip of wood out about a quarter the way down the lid of the box. And then, he lets the weight of the grave's dirt above do its work.
There's a crubmling, a creaking, and a cracking. Above him, the grass that covers his grave sinks into the ground a half-foot.
'Digging through dirt.. it's gotta be easier than digging through wood. Go, damnit, go!'