Imagine being in the trunk of a car. It's hot, sweaty and all you can hear is your heart beating. Singularly. The thud of it resounding. You feel it in your inner ear, in your brain, it follows the rythym of the only vein you can see in the bend of your arm.
You've been tortured emotionally and physically for so long you can't remember and you don't know what's next but you know it's not good because here you are, in the trunk of this car.
Death seems inevitable.
When the car stops you're not let out right away. You hear rustling...movement. You hear laughter...talking. When the trunk is opened you don't even scream because your torture has been defeating to your spirit and you've resigned yourself to the fact that you are not in control when you've always prided yourself on being in control.
As you see where you are being dragged, you squirm, fresh tears hot on your cheak. Humiliating sadness as you realize it's done, it's over. You're thrown into the box which is at the bottom of a shallow grave. Your hands are tied, your mouth is gagged ensuring not even the slightest whimper can escape. The lid is slammed shut and you hear the dirt fanned out on top of you, the light lessening with every shovelful being dropped.
Your throat constricts, your nose can't keep up with the amount of oxygen you have in the tiny space. You know you're dying and you live in the moment as there is nothing else sensory you can focus on. Your death is singular, as is your heartbeat...singular and inevitable.
Yes...that's what it's like. It's like being buried alive while life goes on around you.
Rockstar didn't make it.
