Frank Jenkins awoke a few days after the accident in a dark & tiny, repressively stale place. Not given to panic, he felt his face and eyes for bandages, remembering that there had been an accident, and then for some reason he'd been moved away from others. Not finding anything, he felt around for his watch, or a nurse's call button, maybe some wires or tubes. No button, but the watch was there, and he hit the light on the face.
Two things registered at the same moment. One, it was 7:08 at night, and two? He was in a sealed coffin.
Frank Jenkins was not a man given to panic. Frank Jenkins was a somewhat hard man to know, abrasive and often contrary, the sort of person who would argue on principle with a close friend not realizing until it was too late that he was pissing them off. Frank Jenkins was not someone who would spend a lot of time feeling sorry for himself, or crying about a situation. Frank Jenkins was a bitter cynic, someone with no faith in people, a man who had been let down by the human race on many occasions. Frank Jenkins was convinced that people would rather believe than know, and consequently were mostly ignorant, stupid, self-interested creatures who would disappoint you in a heartbeat, and now, the dumb motherfuckers had apparently buried him alive. Strangely, he had always fucking known this was going to happen. Damn, damn, damn. Cold rage began to seep in behind his eyes, soaking his brain in fire, and he embraced it out of habit.
Shit. No point in wasting any time. He opened his mouth and filled his lungs with stale, hot air.
"Son of a BITCH!!!" Frank howled curses against the confines of the tiny box. "FUCK!!! Goddammit, you rat bastards, sons of eyeless fucking whores, each and every fucking one of you!!! Buried me alive, you fucking fuckturds!?! SHIT!! I swear to fucking Christ on a cracker; I get out of this fucking box, I'm going to absolutely choke the breath out of the first motherless shithead I see."
So resolved, Frank began clawing at the edges of the fabric covering the underside of the lid of his coffin. He ripped it and the foam pad free from the wood, staples flying, and shoved it down the length of his body. He kicked his shoes off, and used the strength of his legs to compact the wad of fabric down near where his feet had been. He then inched the hard-soled dress shoes off of his feet and up his body and put his left shoe on his right hand. With this, he began to hammer on the lid, deliberately, in the same spot every time. It marked right away, the cheap piece of crap, but took a while to show any real damage. Bang, bang, bang. He muttered every song he could think of while keeping time with his shoe, but nothing dampened his fury for the stupid mouth breathers who had fucked up and buried him alive. He was sweating like crazy. He started picturing friends' and family members' faces, getting mad at everyone in turn.
The heel split and gave way with a dull thud, so he took the shoe off and switched them out. 9:19. Shifting around and banging had caused the already split-up-the-back funeral suit to rip even more and come loose. He started whacking away with the right shoe, and after 12 more partial songs that Frank knew, a crack had begun to show in the lid of the coffin. Fucking finally, he thought, as he checked it out with his watch dial light. He ditched the shoe, took off his belt in the confined space and jammed the buckle into the crack, a little bit at a time, rubbing and chipping away at it, splinters falling into his face and hair. He was dimly aware now that almost all of his fingernails were bleeding as blood warmly seeped over his watchface. This just pissed him off even more, and with a sharp CRACK! dirt fell into his resting place, getting into his mouth and eyes.
This just enraged him further. Spluttering mud, he pushed hard with both hands on either side of the crack. Nothing. Wedging the belt buckle back in there, he hammered it with the flat of his hand until it cut him. Rolling over on one side, he stuck his elbow up against the buckle and shoved. He could goddamn well feel the crack getting bigger. Okay. He flopped over onto his belly and did a push up straight into the crack in the lid. Some mild movement, worth pursuing. The whole lid began to shift, then, and he pulled his knees up under him and shoved as hard as he could.
It gave way all at once, and he twisted his body around to begin to deal with all the fucking dirt. And worms and bugs and what the hell? Anyway, he dog paddled the dirt down into the coffin over his own body, filling the area around his legs and chest until he could sit up out of the hole he'd made into the new space. He continued like this, pushing the dirt down into the newly dug spaces until it began to fall away, and he could feel himself moving upward. Presently, he broke ground. HA! He grimly thought to himself as he boosted himself above ground and emerged into the cold night air, sucking it in like it was street drugs. Frank Jenkins rose from the grave, covered in mud and filth, his jacket and shirt falling off of him, shoes missing, clothes in tatters, bleeding and sweating, tired, but - and fuck 'em all for this one - ALIVE. It was 12:57. So that didn't take too long.
Before hobbling out of the graveyard and up the hill in the moonlight, Frank Jenkins choked a fucking groundskeeper named Soony Milton until he blacked out and fell limply to the sod, just to keep the promise he'd made to himself. Next up: getting even with everyone else. Fucks. He was pretty sure he could get off with temporary insanity: "Why'd you do it, Mr. Jenkins?" "Well, I was buried the fuck alive, your honor, and I may not have been in my right mind, you know?"