I started this one night, but in the morning couldn't remember where I was going. Just wondered if it's readable as a story or am I an awful, awful story teller, writer and user of English? Cheers.
Peter 2.0
Peter rose from the casket, awkwardly though as his neck felt a bit stiff. Come to think of it, the whole of his body was feeling a bit stiff. He rubbed his eyes, as one would when they first wake but was surprised by the odd texture that rolled up between his fingers and eyelids. He looked at his hands, not recognising the white chalky residue that come from his face. He glanced about the room for a mirror, or a shiny surface at least. He couldn't see anything in the sterile-white room. He then took stock of what he was sitting in, at first he couldn't believe it, he wouldn't believe it. But then, after a few moments and some pinches of the skin, he couldn't deny it. Was he dead? He asked himself. Can a dead man ask that? He pondered. Peter then noticed what he was wearing; it was that suit. That suit he hated. The same pink and baby blue suit he once wore to his brother's wedding and swore never to wear again. For a second he appreciated the irony of being buried in it. But only for a second.
He didn't know how long he had been laying in that coffin, but he thought it best that sitting in it for any longer wasn't his idea of a good time. My God, his legs were stiff. Stiffer than his legs were after that 4 hour drive to Scarborough last year. And for Peter, that was very stiff indeed. First the left leg bent, that went quite well. Then the right bent, but not at the knee cap, like one would expect. With a dull snap, his shin bone had broke in half. Only now dangling by the skin. Peter let out an instinctive yelp. But soon realised there was no pain at all. He wasn't sure what to be more concerned about; not feeling the break or his leg now sporting two joints.
He didn't want to hang about to figure that out. So, with all his might he heaved himself up, by his arms, his hands gripping onto each side of the casket. And into the air he went. His bottom now a foot from the coffin's red lining. He froze in that position, wondering what maneuver to do next. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to decide as the coffin's sides collapsed under his weight. Which sent him rolling to the floor, with a loud thump but thankfully, no dull snaps.
He first questioned the competence of the casket's carpenter, but decided that was no longer an issue. Seeing as he was no longer planning on using it. He then remembered he was an animated-corpse, now lying on the floor and that this should his main priority of thought. He pushed himself to sit up, with his hands propped behind him and surveyed the room.
There was a white plain door, a cabinet attached to the wall closest to him, and the table with the broken casket on, from which he had just fallen. Peter stiffly reached for a piece of the casket debris that had landed on the floor during the fall. He broke it down into a neater rectangle. Next he unbuckled his trouser belt and pulled it from around his waist. From the belt and wood he fashioned a rather crude splint for his broken leg. He gave it test with a bit of a jig. The splint seemed secure.
Now all he had to do was stand up. Something that never concerned Peter before now. The memory of his shin breaking in the casket was enough to send a shudder down his spine. But he'd come this far, and wasn't prepared to give up now. So, with all his momentum, up he pushed. Before he knew it he was on his feet. But gravity got the best of him, and down came his trousers. He took back a small victory by thinking he'd lost some weight, but then quickly realised that the fat-loss was probably down to decomposition.
He pulled his trousers back up and buttoned his jacket to his trousers for extra support. He stumbled towards the door. Grabbing onto the door's handle for balance. Peter then tried to turn it both ways, to no avail. He desperately rattled the door. But it was no use, it was locked. He pressed his ear up against it. Nothing could be heard. Banging and shouting for help didn't achieve anything either. For the first time, he let moments of surrender seep into his thoughts. But soon put that to the back of his mind as his concentration went onto the fixed wall cabinet.
Again, he stumbled across the room, like a baby first learning to walk and as he reached the wall mount clasping onto it and regaining his composure.
