The last words I remember Damien saying were that he’s going to kill me. Nothing in his tone gave me the impression that he didn’t mean every word.

And yet, I’m still alive. For how long? I try to move, but there’s not much space around me. Before I have a chance to study my surroundings, my sixth sense warns me that something’s wrong. I try to think, but my mind is still cloudy. Luckily, life seems to have returned to my body as well.

The train. When I think of my almost-escape, tears start to leak from the corners of my eyes. I got so far, so very far, and yet I didn’t get anywhere.

He’s going to keep his promise to murder me at some point. Maybe he’s waiting for me to wake up so I can be fully aware of the pain he plans to inflict on me. What fun would there be in killing me in my sleep?

My arms and legs are cramped, so I try to stretch them. Something stops me—something soft and hard at the same time. My arms can go no further than a few inches from my body. As I swallow hard, the sudden realization of where I might be hits me like an unforgiving bolt of lightning. I shudder from deep within.

“Oh my God,” I say through trembling lips. This time I hear my voice, not just inside my head. The drug he gave me earlier has definitely worn off.

My breath is trapped inside my lungs as I open my eyes. I see only darkness. Thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness.

No, it can’t be. He won’t do that to me. He won’t kill me in the worst way possible.

The tips of my fingers come into contact with soft, slippery fabric. I press my hand into it. There’s something hard on the other side.

I draw in a short, frightened breath. The air smells like the interior of a brand new car.

During a moment of denial, I want to believe I’m in the trunk of his car. But I can’t be. There would be a bit more space; I’d be able to hear the rumble of the car as the wheels met the road. I’ve never been in the trunk of a car before, but I imagine it would feel different too. I could be imagining it, but in between the smells of fabric and wood, I think I smell something else. Something damp, like earth.

Time to stop hiding from the truth. It’s right here with me, staring me in the face. I can breathe it, hear its whispers. It has Damien’s voice.

You’re exactly where you think you are, rosebud. Inside a pretty coffin.

Opening my mouth, I fill my lungs with thick, suffocating air. It exits as a scream. The piercing sound bounces off the walls of the coffin, remaining with me.

My heart slams hard against my chest as I feel frantically around the coffin, looking for a way out. Panic is clawing at my spine. Finding nothing of use, I scream until my throat is sore and I’m out of breath. My feet slam against the cushioned coffin walls. I try not to think about how deep underground I am, how long I still have to live.

In a flash, I remember an interview I gave as a model a few years back.

What’s your greatest fear? the interviewer had asked. I needed a moment to respond, turning the question over in my head, searching for the right answer. I peeled back several layers of superficial fears to get to the darkest one. Death, I said to the camera.

The interviewer dug deeper, wanting to know what it was about death that terrified me so much. I told her I was not so much terrified of the other side, but of the journey there. I was scared of the pain of dying. What would be the worst way to die? she prodded. I told her what terrified me most was the thought of being buried alive.

And now that fear has come true, lured out of its hiding place by Damien.

There’s no doubt in my mind he listened to the interview, and probably many others. Holding my worst fears in his hands gives him the ultimate power, the ammunition to destroy me. A quick death would be too easy. He wants me to die at the hands of my worst enemy—my most deep-seated fear.

My fear of being buried alive started with a documentary I watched many years ago, which detailed the phenomenon. Some of the people had died, while others had managed to escape. Those who died were found to have contorted bodies, and nails torn off their fingers and toes. The expressions on their faces had been ones of utter terror, the fears they had wrestled with before death etched into every inch of their skin, frozen there forever.

Taking deep, calming breaths, I replay what I remember of the documentary inside my head.

Several experts shared their opinions on what a person could do should they find themselves buried alive. One thing they all seemed to agree on was that it’s best not to scream, as doing so would diminish the oxygen supply inside the coffin. Try not to panic, they’d said. Well, to hell with that.

Another wave of panic washes over me from head to toe, leaving me trembling. Something slithers beneath me, warm and wet, giving the air a sharp tang. My urine.

Tears block my throat and trickle down the sides of my face. My hands are bunched into fists at my sides, my eyes squeezed shut. Why didn’t he just shoot or strangle me? If he wanted the life to drain out of me slowly, he could have stabbed me and left me to bleed out. It would have hurt, but not as much as this. Not knowing how long I have left scares me more than anything.

Where is he now? Is he standing over my grave, hands in his pockets, as he waits for me to die? Or is he back at his mansion, enjoying a meal, carrying on with his life?

I count my breaths as I wait for a miracle to happen. But nothing happens. Not one sound comes from the other side of the coffin. There’s nothing but silence.

I could be imagining it, but I feel as though the air supply inside my coffin is diminishing. Anytime now I could die from asphyxiation.

My urine is making me itch. I shift a little to scratch my bottom. In doing so, something hard presses against my right buttock. Did he leave some kind of object inside the coffin? Then I realize what it is—the penknife Marissa gave me.

I almost choke on my own breath as I reach under me to pull it out of my back pocket. I had planned to use it on Damien if it came to that. I never thought I might have to use it to free myself from a coffin—if that’s even a possibility.

Knife in my fist, I stretch my arm as far from my body as it will go. I flick the knife open, praying I don’t stab myself.

I’m holding my breath as I slash through the fabric above me. I manage to cut my way through, until the steel blade meets wood. No matter how hard I scratch and stab through it, the wood remains intact. Damien must have chosen the most robust coffin available. After several failed attempts, my hand flops to my side in defeat.

Not ready to give up yet, I draw in a few shallow breaths, bite my lip, and try to push against the cover of the coffin. It doesn’t budge.

I’m left with two options: lie here and wait to die as the oxygen drains out of the coffin and leaves my body to disintegrate, or do the one last thing I have power over. In fact, one of the experts from the documentary had mentioned victims could do this as a last resort.

If no one comes for me in the next few hours, the only way to escape from this fear is to make friends with death, to see it as an escape, and not eternal doom. The knife won’t get me out of the coffin, not physically, but it could make my death come quicker, saving me the torture of a long struggle, of waiting for my own body to waste away.

It’s a way out. But the thought of suicide is terrifying, so I decide to wait as long as possible. Maybe someone will come for me. Maybe Damien will come to his senses and dig me up again.

The wait brings nothing, and soon, fear thickens inside my veins once more. I’ve run out of options.

Running a thumb over the cool blade of the knife, I try to accept that I have to die. It’s just not going to be the way Damien planned it. That could be a little victory on its own. He stole my freedom, but in the end, I can snatch it back by making one last choice he can’t control. I will be the one to choose when I take my final breath.

Armed with that knowledge, I’m a little less afraid of the pain that will surely accompany what I’m about to do.

I wait a few minutes more. When all I can smell is damp earth, fabric, and wood, and all I can hear is silence and the beating of my own heart, I grit my teeth and bring the knife to my wrist.

The first cut is the hardest, the pain so severe it almost knocks me out. But I move on, slicing into my flesh over and over.

I don’t see the blood, but I feel it draining out of me—warm, thick, sticky—along with my life. In my mind’s eye, I picture it staining the fabric, which I can’t see, but imagine to be white or cream.

I scream out in agony, but I don’t stop pressing the blade into my skin. With each cut, I pray for a quick death. Finally, as my mind grows foggy, I drop the knife. Soon, the pain fades into the distance. My body lightens as life gathers me into its arms and places me into the welcoming hands of death.