//------------------------------//
// Chapter IV 
// Story: Blank Slate 
// by Integral Archer 
//------------------------------//

	A unicorn’s eyes snap open in the darkness.

The first thing she notices is the complete absence of light—an oddity, as such a concept does not exist for her. The regulations of her domicile forbid there to be any chamber that isn’t somewhat lighted. What, then, is the meaning of this? Is the power out? But what about the backup generators? Are those out too? Even then, why haven’t the emergency lights come on? 

It is more so than an oddity: it is an impossibility.

She firmly closes her eyes. Then, she opens them as wide as possible. There is no difference between the two states. Both are completely black.

She tries to sit up. Her forehead hits something hard. Instinctively, she brings a forehoof to rub away the pain, only to find that her forehoof, when she tries to lift it, also comes into contact with the same impediment.

In her half-awake state, she tries to make sense of this. Her proprioception is still functional. She knows she’s lying on her back. Her forehooves feel the mattress on either side of her torso, and her hind legs are stretched full. She now notices now that her horn is hitting up against something hard, her bedhead, perhaps. She tries to move her body away from it. She finds that her hind hooves hit something, stopping her. She’s aware that there’s no position in which she’s comfortable.

Now, she’s awake. Like a bird trying to flex its wings for its morning flight, she tries to spread her forehooves laterally. They are stopped prematurely by a hard surface. She tries to raise them upward in the manner of a stretch; they go no further than before.

She still cannot see what is blocking her. Slowly, she runs her hoof over the impediment. It is smooth, soft, cold. It is wood.

It is a coffin. She’s been buried alive.

Instantly, panic strikes. Her limbs thrash out reflexively. The wood does not move. This only serves to increase her frenzy. She gasps, each breath seeming to be less fulfilling than the last. “Help!” she yells. “I’m still alive! I’m down here! Help!” She yells until she is hoarse. She yells until she tastes blood. There is no response from above.

Her vision clouds in proportion as oxygen diminishes. She pounds on the lid as hard as she can. She hits it until her hooves bleed. Over and over again, with more and more fury. It doesn’t yield. Still she hits it, crying, screaming, tears running down her cheeks.

In panic, a creature’s strength is quadrupled. Finally, she hears a fracture. Her relief at this sound gives her more strength. She hits it again. She can feel the wood bending.

A crack, a splinter. The lid has given way. She inhales as deeply as she can, expecting the air of succor. 

Instead, she gets nostrils full of dirt.

The loosely-packed dirt runs in torrents, piling over her face. Breaths beget humus. The hole widens under the current. The earth comes down in all its force.