Musical Alchemist

Why is it so dark?

That was his first thought—a delicate ripple in the stagnant void, a hesitant breath of consciousness breaking through the thick, oppressive silence. Ian's mind hovered there, between waking and nothingness, his thoughts sluggish, tangled like cobwebs in the corners of a dark room.

There was no sound, no light—nothing but an emptiness that swallowed everything beyond his open eyes. For a brief, fleeting moment, he wondered if he had opened them at all.

No… he thought, surely they're still shut. That must be it. They have to be…

The idea settled in his chest, soft but absurdly comforting. A 22-year-old man doesn't just wake up blind—does he? His mind, already fragile, began to unravel. A thread of doubt tugged at his mind, an unsettling question creeping like a shadow in the back of his consciousness.

Please… please just wake up.

Ian blinked once, twice—but the darkness clung to him, dense and unrelenting, like the void itself had seeped into his very bones.

Panic stirred, not yet full-blown, but a whisper in the stillness. Ian shoved it down, retreating behind a wall of reason. It's just a dream, he told himself. It has to be a dream. His voice, even in his mind, sounded distant, weak, as though it was fighting to break through some invisible barrier.

However as time stretched from seconds to minutes, each second more oppressive than the last, the blinding darkness showed no sign of lifting. Ian's pulse quickened. His breaths grew shallow, each one pulling more uncertainty into his lungs. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand to rub his eyes.

It didn't move.

At first, Ian barely registered the resistance but then he tried again, more forcefully, and his fingertips brushed against something, something solid yet rough. Wood. His breath got stuck in his throat.

Wood?

His mind stumbled over the word, grasping at the absurdity of it. Why wood? The realization settled over him like a cold, damp fog. His fingers explored, tracing the surface, the edges of the space around him. The sensation crawled across his skin, foreign and wrong. The space was tight. Too tight.

A shiver ran down his spine, slow at first, then violently electric. He pressed his palm harder against the wood. It didn't move. It didn't even bulge. He felt the walls closing in, their presence suffocating, pressing against his limbs, his chest. Ian's breath became faster now, panic initiated, spreading from his mind to his veins.

This isn't right.

He shifted, tried to sit up, but his forehead met the same hard surface, just inches from his face. His legs kicked out instinctively, but they hit the same solid walls, trapping him on all sides. His mind scrambled for explanations, but none of them made sense, none of them fit.

Where am I?

Ian's thoughts were unraveling now, a knot of fear and confusion pulling tighter with every second. The air felt thick, too heavy, like it wasn't air at all but something darker, something more oppressive. Ian's heart pounded against his ribs, the thudding loud, almost deafening in the silence. His hands curled into fists, and he struck the wood above him with all the strength he could muster.

It remained utterly still, as though it were a distant memory lost to time.

No… no, no… where am I?

It wasn't his bed or rather not even his room. It wasn't anywhere he knew. His mind was racing, frantic now, running in circles, grasping at fragments of logic that slipped through his fingers like sand.

He struck the wood again, harder, a muffled thud echoing through the darkness. In response, a slow, insidious notion emerged, creeping into his mind. It was unsettling, yet deep down, Ian knew it was the only answer to his question.

A coffin.

The word took shape, jagged and terrible, and for a moment, his thoughts froze, suspended in the horror of the realization. He was in a coffin. Trapped. Buried. Alive.

No... His fists pounded against the wood, frantic now, his knuckles stinging with each impact. "Let me out!" His voice, raw and desperate, tore through the darkness, only to bounce back at him, absorbed by the walls of his suffocating prison. The silence that followed was thick, absolute, like the earth itself had swallowed his cries.

His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one tasting of the dark, damp air that clung to him like death itself. He screamed again, louder this time, but it felt futile, the sound dissolving into nothingness.

The silence outside was unnerving, too still, too final. He strained his ears for any sign of life—a voice, a footstep, anything—but there was nothing. Nothing but the maddening, eerie quiet that pressed down on him from all sides.

Ian's mind began to unravel under the crushing weight of his predicament, each passing second drawing him further into an abyss of terror.

Sweat coated his skin, the oppressive heat within the confines of the coffin intensifying, suffocating him with its relentless grip. It felt as though the very earth conspired to draw him deeper into its embrace, urging him to return to the soil from which he had emerged.

Yet, Ian persisted, refusing to surrender to despair. However, a cruel twist of fate played its hand as the environment around him grew even more oppressive, the heat becoming unbearable.

"Why is it so hot?" he wondered, grappling with the surreal intensity of his surroundings.

The thought flared in his mind, but there was no answer. The heat wrapped around him like a vice, choking, relentless. He could feel the dampness of his shirt clinging to his back, the sweat dripping into his eyes. His body trembled, not just with fear now, but with the sheer, unbearable heat.

This can't be real. His thoughts circled, desperate, but there was no escape. His hands clawed at the wood, his nails scraping, splintering as they dug into the surface. But there was no way out. No cracks. No weakness. The walls were unyielding.

The air was thicker now, oppressive, as though the darkness had substance, seeping into his lungs with every gasping breath. His chest ached, his pulse racing wildly, erratic. Ian's mind clawed for a rational thought, but none came. There was only the heat, the pressure, the weight of the coffin, crushing him.

The panic was fire in his veins now, burning hotter than the air around him. Ian's thoughts flickered, wild and desperate, like moths battering themselves against a flame. He was trapped. Buried alive. And no one could hear him. No one knew he was here.

In that very moment, the world collapsed around him, folding in on itself, dragging him down into the darkness that had no end.