She lay still in peaceful solitude and felt the gentlest breeze caress her face. Her fingers sank into the moist dirt around her, and she could feel the fresh dew drops dampening her fingers. The tree hanging over her provided shelter from the warmth of the sun as well as a stage for birds to perch and sing, and as their song met her ears, she finally felt a sense of inner tranquility. Breathing in deeply, she wished life could remain like this forever. Spring made her feel at home, surrounded by the budding life emerging from the soil.
It had been a year since she had entered the dark earth, becoming one with the soil. That day was cold and lonely, and her mind screamed as she was buried in the frozen ground. She had hoped that someone would discover her body here, but he must have buried her far away for the earth around her was never disturbed by any human footsteps. That was the day she realized that she missed being able to cry — something she had taken for granted, sometimes even hated, when she was alive.
But, for now, it was warm and there was a song. Spring was her favorite time of the year. It made her feel alive as she could hear the life above her start to emerge and flourish; below, she could feel the plants sprouting up from the earth past her fingertips. There must have been a spring by where she was buried because she could hear the faintest trickling sound by where she lay. The rustling of the canopy above her provided her solace, reminding her of old childhood memories in which she would lay down by her town’s riverbank after school and stare at the trees hovering overhead.
School. Never was there a time she thought she would ever miss going to school everyday. She found herself actually missing the stress of looming deadlines, constant assignments and finals. While the chime of the bell dismissing the students from their classes every period was once suffocating, she realized now that the problems that had once consumed her entire being were inconsequential and frivolous in the long run. She should have traveled more, gone on every single road trip possible, seen every single national park across the country and swam in every single ocean. She missed being able to see life itself. She could hear the sounds of nature above her, and it was tormenting her to not be able to experience the sights herself. She almost wished he’d taped her body to a tree so she could at least see something other than darkness.
Winter was different: the cold brought a tension to all it touched, turning the once soft embrace of soil into the walls of a tomb. Cold and stark, it reminded her of the day she died and was first thrust into this eternal darkness.
The wind played her requiem that day — the faintest of rhapsodies — as hardened chunks of dirt were shoveled onto her from above. It had started to snow halfway through, and the snowflakes had started to freeze the ground, chilling her. She had almost wished he’d hurry up with burying her, as the ground provided her a blanket to shield herself from the cold. Icicles dropped from the branches, falling off as the wind rocked them left and right. She had heard the faint sound of wolves in the distance, allowing her to deduce that she was deep in the woods somewhere. She had no idea where he had driven her; she knew no place that had wolves. All she knew was that it was frigid and dark. When winter came again a year later, she shook in the ground, frozen from the fear of her past memories, thrashing against the coldness of the dirt. She couldn’t wait until spring came and she could forget about how she ended up here.
Summer was alright. Once spring had come and gone, she felt as if she had nothing to do but mourn the life above that she couldn’t live. As a child, she would always spend her summers running around outside with her friends, playing at the park. In more recent years leading up to the fateful night, she’d drive around with her friends at night, blasting songs on the radio with the windows rolled down and singing at the top of her lungs. She wished she could cry. It was almost worse remembering than not remembering a thing.
Autumn was a less sentimental time for her. While she had once loved the seasonal festivities, it was nowhere near as hard for her as summer was. She enjoyed listening to the rustling of the trees as they shed their leaves and listening to the patter of tiny footsteps as squirrels did their last minute digging for nuts. Also, the soil soothed her as it cooled from the suffocating heat of the summer. She could feel the wind blow around, feeling its gentle breeze through the earth.
The second half of autumn is what bothered her. She was never sure what signaled the end of fall and the beginning of winter, but it put her constantly on edge, fearing that the occasional autumn flurry would turn into a seemingly everlasting winter. With no way to keep track of the months, her paranoia ate her alive as she sank deeper and deeper into a state of dread as the weather grew colder. She would find herself hoping to skip past the remaining autumn months left and the entirety of winter, longing to feel the warm spring wind again.
As she came back to the present, she reflected on how different her life had become over the past year. She had become one with the earth, one with her surroundings, one with the ebb and flow of time. While she admired her newfound appreciation for nature, she couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t take another winter. She wanted to be found. She wanted to cry. She wanted to see. She wanted to live.
