Renly closed his eyes, gradually slowing his breath. He had some concerns, actually – worried that the simulated environment and psychological immersion might not be accurate enough. He feared he might lack a true sense of crisis. Apart from failing to achieve his initial goal, he dreaded falling too comfortably into a state of monotony, dozing off without real engagement.
Yet, as the coffin lid closed over him, a claustrophobic sensation, palpably close, invaded. Despite the pitch-black surroundings, devoid of any light, he still felt acutely the weight of the thick wooden board mere inches above his nose. The entire space for existence was compressed to its utmost, as if even the air were thinning, the invisible restraint inducing an involuntary unease.
This was no plush hotel bed, nor the narrow bathroom of a Parisian apartment.
Renly attempted to adjust his posture, but his hands hadn't fully extended before they bumped against the wooden sides with a muted thud. Despite the thick layer of cotton, his elbow emitted a faint ache. Reflexively lifting his leg, his knee met the board with a harsh collision. He didn't even know why he lifted his leg, yet the ever-present sense of confinement bore its weight upon him, rendering even the simple act of turning over impossible.
"Thud, thud, thud." A steady rhythm resonated from above, and the entire coffin sensed the faint vibration. Renly knew they were nailing the lid shut. He cautiously raised a fist, pounding the wood directly overhead. His forearm couldn't extend beneath the thick padding, allowing only minor exertion. "Haha, don't nail it too tight, I still plan on getting out," he jestingly quipped.
Before his light-hearted remark could fully escape, it collided with the wood, crashing down heavily on his eardrums, an unexpected assault that furrowed his brow. The sound seemed to constrict the space it could traverse, much like the echolocation of a bat, steadily dwindling in detectable range.
Anxiety began to burgeon uncontrollably.
Renly took a deep breath, swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and internally assured himself that this signified his plan's success. This was the effect he had anticipated. He attempted to focus his mind, disregarding the disturbances around him, genuinely immersing himself in Paul Conroy's world.
He was Paul, and he yearned to persist. He wished to reunite with his wife, to return to his child's side. He refused to be buried alive, gripped by the fear of death constricting his heart. He must struggle, resist, and fight for survival. He was Paul Conroy! In this moment, he was stranded in the heart of the desert, interred alive, with no one aware of his existence.
A glimmer of insight flashed through his mind – he was buried alive.
Suddenly, the sound of nails hammering burst into his ears, explosive as thunder beside his eardrums, interrupting his thoughts. Reality surged forth, the packing process had begun, sealing the coffin in line with his request: nailing it shut, ensuring he couldn't struggle or escape.
First from the left above his head, then from the right above his head. The entire coffin quaked, causing his brain to throb. Soon it came from the left foot's side, followed by the right foot's side.
At last, the ordeal concluded. Renly exhaled softly, but then the sound echoed once more, this time from the left palm's side. That wasn't part of his request; he had merely asked for nails at each corner. Why were they continuing? Things seemed to be growing stranger, with the ensuing sounds impacting his right palm's side, left forearm's side, right forearm's side, left calf's side, right calf's side... as if there was no end, each direction meticulously sealed with nails.
In the clutches of conscious thoughts, his mind began to spiral into chaos. The boundaries between reality and illusion blurred imperceptibly, setting off a surge of panic within Renly.
Don't panic, don't panic! If this is reality, then Matthew is outside, and everything will be alright. If this is a dream, then upon awakening, everything will revert to its original state. So, there was no need to worry, right?
"Thud, thud, thud." The ceaseless sound of nails hammering seemed endless, as if lacking an endpoint. Now, it even started from the direction above his head. But hadn't that area been nailed shut already?
Unconsciously, Renly tilted his head upward, attempting to discern the direction above, yet... darkness. Aside from darkness, there was only more darkness. He attempted to reach out and touch the wall, but his elbow collided with it once more. "F*ck!" A curse escaped his lips but was swiftly swallowed, clenching his teeth, he used his fingertips to explore. Yet, all he felt was a chilly silkiness, nothing more.
Panic began to creep, not surging like a tidal wave but infiltrating like a slow drip through stone. Instead of diminishing, the sense of unease steadily climbed. The air seemed to grow warmer, his forehead and palms glistened with sweat, and that clammy sensation induced a parched mouth and a growing, indescribable tension.
Renly struggled. On one hand, he urged himself to immerse into the role of Paul; on the other, he couldn't suppress his wandering thoughts. He had merely requested nails at each corner, so why were there so many now? It sounded like more than ten. Had something gone wrong?
Raising his hand once more, he knocked on the coffin. "Matthew?" Renly called out, the sound once again crashing down around him, without any response. "Matthew?" He raised his voice, shouting loudly. "Charles? Charles!" Renly's voice echoed, waiting in silence for a reply, but... his hope was dashed. Silence, utter silence, the world shrouded him in darkness, like a rising tide. The suffocating sensation of drowning began to tighten around his throat. "Matthew Charles Dunlop!" Renly gritted his teeth, issuing a final ultimatum.
A hushed stillness descended.
Only the sound of his own breathing filled his ears, his breath now growing rapid and feverish. Had something happened? Had the owner, enticed by greed, subdued Matthew and intended to suffocate him? After all, he had already signed the waiver of rights, hadn't he? Or perhaps another mishap had occurred – maybe an unexpected earthquake or a sudden fire forced everyone to evacuate, which is why he hadn't received a response?
Or... perhaps, he truly was stranded in the heart of the desert. Militants from Iraq had abducted him, casting him into this coffin, burying him alive beneath the desert's expanse. He was alone now; even if there were a god, it couldn't help him. Alone in the boundless desert, awaiting his death.
The pounding of his heart grew louder, as though it might rend his chest at any moment, bursting forth. Panic, starting from his feet, surged to his head. His scalp tingled, his breath accelerated. Tiny beads of sweat, like peas, trickled down. His back was already drenched. He wanted to turn, but his shoulder collided with the wall. He couldn't even feel the pain; his taut muscles were numb.
No, he wasn't willing to wait for death. He absolutely wouldn't just wait for death to come silently.
He began to fiercely ram his shoulders against the wooden lid above, over and over. Yet, he remained in a supine position, limbs bound within the confined space, incapable of exerting force. Even if he collided with it, it seemed as though an ant were striking a tree—utterly lacking in strength.
Nevertheless, he didn't give up. Gritting his teeth, he struck again. The whole coffin gently trembled, igniting a flicker of hope that fueled every ounce of his determination. Every muscle tensed, he drew himself into the tightest coil. Knees and coccyx pressed against the walls, he then released all his pent-up energy like a spring, using his shoulders to crash into the wood. Overexerting himself, he momentarily lost control. The back of his head collided directly, the searing agony forcing him to clench his teeth.
Unrestrainable anger surged from the depths of his being. His hands pounded fiercely on the board just inches above, curses finally breaking free, "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" He hammered and struggled with all his might, screaming, "Is anyone there? Someone, please! I'm trapped inside! Is anyone there? Anyone?"
He erupted like a volcano, an unceasing surge, yet his struggles seemed trivial. His arms hit the wall before extending, feet met the wall before spreading apart, and muscles met the wall before exerting force. The cramped space suppressed nearly all his explosive power, compressing it like water beneath a surface, leaving him with no point of leverage, no source of propulsion, and forcibly caught halfway.
The stifling sense of frustration blazed forth, an uncontrollable eruption. All reason, all calm, were consumed in its flames, leaving only an all-consuming, desperate struggle. In this moment, even if Jesus himself appeared before him, Renly would tear him apart with his bare hands.
"Hoo, hoo..." After his rapid breaths, exhaustion flooded in, followed by a throbbing ache in his brain. Within the sweltering air, oxygen seemed scarce, unexpectedly turning his stomach. "Gag." The retching sound scraped everything from his stomach, even the strong tea he'd had in the morning.
He could have turned his head to vomit aside, but he was a beat too slow. Some of the liquid trickled down his chin, warm and viscous, offering no relief. His stomach surged even more, as if last night's dinner would surge halfway back up.
How disheveled, how humiliating, how utterly despairing.
Fists clenched, he pounded the wall, not caring about the pain, just wanting to release his fury. Each hit followed the next, pain barely registering. His teeth were on the brink of shattering, "Ah, ah, ah!" He roared endlessly, until his vocal cords started to ache. Drained of his last ounce of strength, he collapsed onto the floor, relinquishing all struggles and rage. He lay there like a corpse.