Honestly, I was buried alive. Millions were buried, but somehow I was saved, saved by someone who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was fine, just fine with dying. I could accept dying at home in the home I kew as a child---where my mother rocked me to sleep, where dad would pat my head while leaving to work, and years later when Lucca would make me breakfast and where my brother would chase me around the house. I was so tired, I couldn't fight anymore.
Yet, some part of me kept fighting, it heard the voices, and so my breathing continued. Some people talk about the survival instinct, not sure how much I believe in that stuff, who would want to survive to this state of humanity, I sure didn't. I was destined to die the long and hard way out. But, Damn it, I just wouldn't die!
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