250 words, rating PG.
Mine Own Executioner
It was pitch black, and cramped, and when she moved her hands she hit a flat surface. Above, and to each side, and below. It felt like wood. And she remembered dying, and put the clues together, and realized that she was buried alive.
And she hammered at the wood with superhuman strength, amplified by desperate terror, and the wood shattered and soil spilt into the coffin. Then there was clawing, and wriggling, working her way up to the surface by sheer instinct, choking on the moist earth that worked its way into her nose and her mouth, and into her eyes to sting and blind. And then there was cool air on her hand, and she struggled even more fiercely, and then she broke through and her head was above ground and she could breathe again.
She pushed at the ground, levered herself up, getting her shoulders free, and then her body up to her waist, and eventually she was able to crawl out onto the wet grass and lie there alternately panting and sobbing. And then, eventually, she clambered to her feet, wiped the dirt from her eyes with bleeding hands, and looked around.
And saw herself, pretty in pink, holding a stake.
“Hello,” the other her said. “You look like me. We’re pretty. Except that you’re dirty and I’m clean. And you’ve risen from the grave so you must be a vampire. I Slay vampires.”
And the stake drove home and Buffy collapsed back into her grave.