Page 8 of His Hell Girl

I'm soon dumped into the coffin, my back landing on something hard, the sound of bones crunching, resounding in the small space.

I'm trembling from head to toe, but I don't dare move, for fear of what I might see.

"Sweet dreams, dearSisi." Cressida glares at me smugly.

Just as it had been taken off, the top is slowly sealed shut, and the entire world becomes drenched in darkness.

I hold myself still, waiting for them to leave. I'll try to get out after that.

But just as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I hear the rattle of the latch. My eyes widen in disbelief.

"It's not real. It's not real," I whisper to myself. But as I move just one inch to the right and I bump into a hard object, it's suddenly very real.

"Calm down. I need to calm down," I say out loud, hoping the noise will help me focus on something other than fear.

I breathe in and out as I let my hand roam around. I'd barely seen what was inside when they threw me in, and maybe it's better that way.

The smell is as Cressida had described… putrid. It's old and musty, and there's just something that makes me want to hold my breath in disgust.

I move around and I feel some type of material, as well as what I imagine to be bone.

Human bone!

Out of all the things they've done to me over the years, this has to be the most extreme.

Panic takes hold of me as I start imagining being forever locked in this coffin.

What if they take their prank to the extreme? What if they think that no one is going to miss me, so they just… forget me here?

It wouldn't be the first time someone's just vanished from Sacre Coeur and no one had batted an eye. There was Delilah, who'd only been here a year, and there were also the twins, Kat and Kris, who'd both disappeared at the same time. Andno onehad brought them up ever again. It was like they never existed in the first place.

And soon that will be me too.

The more I think of my bleak future, the more I realize I'm not ready to die. Not now or anytime soon.

I haven't even lived.

Clenching my hands into fists, I press them against the top of the coffin, punching, scratching, hitting—everything while hoping the heavy thing might budge.

But it doesn't.

I kick at it with my feet, using all the strength I can muster.

Nothing.

Somehow, the thought that I'll die here, and on my birthday, nonetheless, makes me want to fight.

I may have nothing to fight for, but at least I have myself. And maybe no one else loves me, but I do.

And I want to live.

I want to keep on going, because maybe, one day, my wish will come true.

Knowing I can't give up, I continue to kick at the top until exhaustion claims me and I drop back, my limbs sapped of strength, but my resolve still made of steel.

Because I can.

She's been tormenting me for years because she could. She was right about that.

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