[color=f26522][h1][u][center]Jack Ashbourne[/center][/u][/h1][/color]

Jack's hand slammed into the piece of wood that sat above him. Again and again his first slammed into the wood. They were not controlled slams, but slams of anger and fear. They were the slams that happen when your heartbeat races. Around his fist wood splintered and broke to pieces. It was old rotten wood which made the process of breaking it much easier. But why was it old rotten wood?

The thought terrified him, so he ignored it, shoving it to the back of his mind. With a final deep smash the food above his head shattered, falling to pieces across his face. Dirt began to pour in. Having been leaning back trying to see anything in the silent blackness, his jaw had drifted open. Quickly it filled his mouth. He choked on it, expecting his gag reflex to kick in. It didn't. Not that it would have mattered, the dirt was pouring in so fast it would have been impossible to spit anything out. 

Clenching his jaw around the piles of dirt, Jack thrust his long fingers through the dirt. Inch by inch he began to pull it back behind him. The soil right above him had been loose, but above that seemed to have a clay like texture. Hours drifted by, though it seemed like days, and still it didn't seem like he was any closer to the surface. While the room of the coffin had been miniscule, now it seemed like a mansion compared to his current situation. Everywhere he felt was dirt. Solid thick packed dirt, looming in above his head. At any moment it could collapse and he would be even more buried. He might even die. It was a miracle he hadn't already...

He thought of himself dieing, stuck in a tiny hole he had carved in the ground. It angered him to think that he would never see his family again. They would be worried, searching endlessly for him. They would never find their lost son. They would think he had run off. With a growl of frustration his fist shot up into the dirt ceiling. His head snapped up to look at it when he realized his hand had gone through. Slowly, wordlessly his fingers curled around, searching the outside. 

He felt... grass. Immediately he felt a surge of energy. Yanking down with the arm, clumps of dirts collapsed on top of his cramped, crushed body. Light poured in through the hole. His den lit up. For the first time since he had woken up he could actually see. His hands were covered by black gloves, across his body was a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. He looked like he was attending a funeral. Bloody ridiculous. Reaching up he could feel that somehow through the entire struggle he had managed to keep his hat. Lightly taking it off his head, he brushed dirt off the rim delicately. How dare dirt get on there.

Standing up, to his full intimidating height of 6'6", he stepped out of the hole in the ground. Stretching out his lanky frame he looked around. He was in a grave. Why the hell was he in a- The thought died immediately at the site of a small grey stone in the ground. It was his stone. His... gravstone. His knees felt weak beneath his body, but he did not collapse. Instead he set his jaw and cracked his neck. Time to find out what was going on. A fire lit in his eye sockets as he adjusted the brim of his hat and strode out of the graveyard.