Wish I was still asleep...

Consciousness flickered against my brain, lightly tickling it awake. I felt well rested, more well rested than I can remember feeling in ages; as though I'd slept for days. Okay, time to open the eyes, and face the day.

Eyes open, pitch black.

Blink. Okay, where am I? This doesn't feel like my bed, and if it was, I should be able to see something. It's never this dark in my room. The neon from the store across the street always sneaks through the blind, spilling across the ceiling, highlighting the cracks with it's unhealthy glow.

But nothing now.

Suddenly, I feel a little claustrophobic. I can feel a slight pressure to either side of me, as though I'm surrounded by pillows. I reach out slowly, and touch satin. Cushioned satin.

My heart skips a beat, and I swallow hard. I know where I am.

Can't panic... panic is going to make it worse.

Like this could get any worse, my brain titters.

Two deep breaths silence the skittering panic.

Okay. I'm in a coffin.

Panic tangos across my consciousness.

Two more deep breaths.

How did I get here? Where was I last? Last night... last night we went to the bar. Tommy was there. Kate. Who else? Baz? Yeah, Baz was there. We had some shots... Kate sang karaoke. We had a few more shots. There was that stunning brunette...

Damnit, why can't I remember more?

What does it matter if you remember or not? You're still in a coffin. My brain was doing it's best to piss me off.

Okay, what do we do. We're in a coffin. Let's see if we can push the lid up a little. No give.

Great.

Two deep breaths.

And now I have to pee. You never see this in movies. The protags never seem to have to pee. Must be nice to not have a bladder.

Five minutes pass, breathing deep to keep the panic from setting in. My bladder is close to becoming a sharp pain, urging me to find a way out. I don't want someone to open this coffin, find me dead, and coated in urine. For some reason, I find that embarassing.
Deep breaths. I won't be found dead. I'll find a way to get out.

Or you won't be found at all, my brain replies.

You are one sick bastard, I retort.

No response. My brain has apparently decided that it's done enough damage for now.

Deep breaths.

Waitadamnminute. Deep breaths? It's getting stale in here. How much air in a coffin? Wish I'd watched Mythbusters more closely.

Got to slow down my breathing.

Panic waltzes through. I resist the temptation to breathe deeply.

Shit. How did I get here.

Does it even matter any more?