Sæterdæg Delvings

The deep aroma of pine with hints of cedar filled his lungs as he took another deep breath; he couldn’t scream without it. The darkness was thick making his movements feel fuzzy, or maybe that was from the hyperventilating. Either way, the obsidian colored atmosphere reminded him of the thick dark molasses his mother used to cook with, a black so absolute around him that it was almost viscous. He took another deep intake of air, dust rushed into his throat and threw him into a coughing fit, his throat raw with the copper taste of blood at the back of his tongue. Inches above his forehead wooden planks restricted his movement. He could hardly bring his knees up, nor could he turn to his side.

He lay there on his back and closed his eyes, marveling at not being able to tell the difference between the back of his eyelids and his confined space. He could taste dirt and earth as it grated across his teeth. His moods swung from anger, fear, panic, and depression all in the span of a few seconds as he tried again with bloodied fists to force his way through the relentless timber that confined him.


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