Mr. Kirkland's Slow Demise - Prelude

Mr Kirkland had just been buried, he had been slowly deteriorating for months, till he was found dead in his home by a young lady he had been courting at the time.  She saw him already in the grip of rigour mortis while checking up on him one morning, he was pronounced dead when doctors had arrived that afternoon.  A small amount of people had gathered at his grave, the man had no close family so most of the visitors were colleagues and a few friends.  The mood was sombre and there was a light drizzle of rain to accompany the solemn atmosphere.  There was a young woman, with plaited blonde hair tied by two purple ribbons, she approached the grave.  She was crying, a white lace handkerchief wrapped around her index finger was used to wipe her eyes.  In her other hand she held a bouquet of roses tightly in a white knuckled grip, like they were all she had of the now dead man who now lay six feet under the very soil she stood on.  The breeze was gentle but it moaned as it passed through the broken, leafless trees.  It reminded her of how Mr Kirkland had sounded last week when she had been caring for him, so pained and sad.  If only their had been a diagnosis and a cure for his ailments.

People soon began to peel away, some because they where upset, some because the service was now over and others because they wanted to leave the blonde woman to grieve privately.  Soon when she was now alone with 'him' the young woman kneels in front of the grave, placing the red and white roses into the pot in front of the gravestone before wrapping her arms around it like it were the person himself.  "Arthur!"  She wailed, her saddened voice melded with the sound of the wind creating an almost ghostly cry.  Now she was alone, her neatly composed demeanour could be dropped.  It ate away at her that she hadn't been with him when he passed.  Had it been painful?  Was he scared when it happened?  Could she have helped him perhaps?  Now though he was buried and she would have to move on, not forget but not dwell on what now could never be.  She sobbed for a further ten minuets, only when she was hiccuping and her aquamarine eyes could cry no more did she release the head stone that read "Here Lies ARTHUR KIRKLAND born 23rd April 1857 - 26th November 1880"  The young woman grazed her fingertips over the grave marker, patting the top of it and with a "Good bye Arthur."  She walked away still holding the lace handkerchief.

In the coffin under six feet of soil the man was dressed in his best suit, his cane and top hat also.  He was deathly still except his eyes began to blink, it was pitch black in the casket.  Arthur knew where he was, and it scared him.  Mr. Kirkland had been buried alive…  His arms and legs began to move as he could breathe again, he gulped in air faster and faster as he panicked he knew he had already been buried and clawed at the coffin.  He had to get out.  HE HAD TO GET OUT!  HEHADTOGETOUT!  It was useless shouting but he did it anyway, screaming "LET ME OUT!  I'M ALIVE!"  He left scratch marks on the pine lid as the air in his coffin started to become thick and heavy.  His panic had taken full hold and he ignored the splinters sticking into his hands, Arthur could feel something wet and warm at his fingertips start to build.  He gulped and he began hyperventilating, his chest expanded and collapsed at an alarming rate and his breathing was loud and panicked, he felt the oxygen in the coffin start to dwindle as his chest felt like it was about to explode from the pain and lack of breath.  Only inside his casket could he hear the terrible sounds of his frantic and now rasping breath, the sounds of his nails clawing madly at the wooded lid.  He couldn't see at all which only made his fear greater.

The deprivation of fresh air soon got to him though and his body started to become sluggish and Arthur began to feel tired and in so much pain, his bloodied hands dropped from the lid.  He'd been clawing it so hard that he had scraped away the skin of his finger tips, that pain was nothing compared to the pain in his head and chest.  He began to have a violent fit, his feet kicking out, his knees hitting the lid and his hands bashed against the wood, he just wasn't in control anymore.  After the convulsion his suffering began to ebb and he entered a coma, finally lying still, but he wasn't at peace.  

Then Mr. Kirkland stopped breathing…