Chapter 17
§17. The alchemist who lives in the cemetery
In spite of the tenacity that kept my feet rooted to the terrestrial sphere, it felt as if I was astray in the cosmos. Anchored in the soil and stone, my limbs flailed, uncomprehending of the direction they ought to choose, and under this light-deprived expanse, my state was indistinguishable from that of a sightless man.
Clods of earth, moss, and gravel persistently sought passage into my mouth, whilst the incessant skittering of the arthropods chiselled into my flesh behind my ears. The most agonising reality was the utter audibility of the plaintive cries of these minuscule insects.
Owing to my relentless endeavour to excavate rocks with bare hands, my leathered gloves lay in tatters, my nails shattered, and the cruel pebbles sought refuge in the clefts of my hands. However, my predicament permitted no room for suffering.
My breathing pattern became disordered, harsh, as the vapours of my breath clung to my countenance. The scant moisture in this stifling underground environment seemed confined to just this, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. Deprived of sufficient oxygen, my thoughts started to dissolve.
Yes.
I was alive, yet buried.
─────Thump, thump.
In the midst of my laborious efforts to shovel the soil, I ceased, suspending my breath. From above, rhythmic concussions were relayed to me. It was them. They were aware of my entombment close by.