PART 1:
“We haven’t even buried her yet, and you’re already dividing up her things.”
Those were the first words I heard when I woke up.
At first, I did not understand them.
I did not open my eyes right away. I was too confused. My body felt strangely heavy, almost as if I were trapped under a huge weight.
Then I smelled something.
Lilies.
The sweet, strong smell filled the air around me.
My mouth was painfully dry. My tongue felt like sandpaper. My back was stiff, and there was a deep ringing inside my ears that would not stop.
I tried to move my fingers.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
This time, one finger moved just a little.
Then I felt something heavy lying across my chest.
A silver cross.
I did not remember ever touching it.
My heart began beating faster.
Something was very wrong.
I slowly tried to open my eyes, but they felt too heavy. I could barely lift my eyelids.
Then I noticed a thin line of warm light.
There was a tiny opening near my face.
It was coming from somewhere above me.
For several terrifying seconds, I could not understand what I was seeing.
Then the truth hit me.
I was inside a coffin.
My own coffin.
I lay completely still, unable to scream.
I recognized the room around me.
It was my mother’s living room in Milwaukee.
I knew every part of it.
The old mahogany clock in the corner was ticking slowly, just as it had for years. The cream-colored lace curtains hung beside the windows. Folding plastic chairs had been placed around the room, the same chairs we always used for birthdays, holidays, and family dinners.
But there was no celebration today.
There were candles.
Dark coffee that had clearly been reheated.
Older women whispering prayers.
And on a small table stood a framed photograph of me surrounded by fresh white flowers.
They were holding a wake for me.
But I was alive.
The last thing I remembered was the night before.
My younger sister, Chloe, had come to my house with a mug of warm milk and cinnamon.
“You look completely exhausted,” she had said gently.
I remember smiling at her.
I remember trusting her.
Later that night, I had a serious argument with my husband, Christopher.
I had discovered an unauthorized wire transfer of $42,000 from our online checking account.
When I confronted him, he immediately became defensive.
“It’s just a routine business payment,” he insisted.
I did not believe him.
“Then show me the bank receipt,” I demanded.
I wanted to see it immediately.
He refused.
We argued for several minutes.
Then something strange happened.
A terrible sleepiness suddenly came over me.
It was not normal tiredness.
It felt unnatural.
My eyelids became impossibly heavy. My body seemed to stop listening to my brain.
And then everything went black.
Now I was lying inside a velvet-lined coffin.
I heard footsteps nearby.
Then Christopher spoke.
“Gwen, please don’t worry,” he said softly. “Madelyn told me many times that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted Chloe to have this beautiful piece.”
I stared through the tiny opening in the coffin.
Christopher’s pale hand appeared.
He was holding something familiar.
My grandmother’s gold heart necklace.
She had given it to me when I turned fifteen.
I had treasured it for years.
My mother began crying.
“She never took that necklace off,” she said. “Not even when she went to sleep.”
“That’s exactly why I’m giving it to her,” Christopher replied. “I don’t want something so meaningful sitting in a drawer somewhere.”
I watched helplessly as he walked toward Chloe.
My sister lowered her head.
But she did not look heartbroken.
She looked nervous.
Christopher stepped behind her and carefully fastened my necklace around her neck.
My anger exploded inside me.
For a moment, I forgot that my body could barely move.
I wanted to jump out of that coffin.
I wanted to tear the necklace from Chloe’s neck.
I wanted to scream.
Then Chloe spoke.
“What if someone asks about the necklace?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Nobody is going to ask any questions,” Christopher answered.
He sounded completely calm.
“The death certificate is already taken care of. The insurance money will be released as soon as the paperwork is finished. And selling the house will be much easier if we move quickly.”
My breathing became fast and shallow.
Then Chloe whispered something that made my blood run cold.
“Yesterday, I was terrified he would notice the strange taste in the mug.”
Christopher laughed quietly.
It was a cold laugh.
“I told you exactly how many pills to use. She fell asleep in less than ten minutes.”
My entire body went cold.
The milk.
The cinnamon.
The strange taste.
They had drugged me.
They had planned this.
They had expected me to die.
I tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
All I could do was move one finger underneath the stiff blue dress they had put on me.
Around me, my aunts continued praying.
Someone nearby was asking what time the funeral hearse would leave for the cemetery.
Every word felt like another shovelful of dirt being thrown over me.
If nobody realized I was alive, they would bury me before sunset.
I would be trapped underground.
Alive.
Unable to move.
Unable to scream.
Then I heard something different.
Tiny footsteps.
They were coming closer.
I knew those footsteps.
It was Mason, Chloe’s seven-year-old son.
He was holding a half-eaten chocolate cookie.
He walked toward the coffin.
Then he leaned closer.
He looked through the narrow opening.
Our eyes met.
I could barely move, but I forced my eyelids to blink.
Once.
Twice.
Mason froze.
His mouth dropped open.
For several seconds, he simply stared at me.
Then he slowly turned toward his mother.
His voice was calm.
Almost too calm.
“Mommy…”
Chloe looked at him.
“Aunt Madelyn is looking right at me.”
Chloe gasped.
The glass of ice water in her hand slipped from her fingers.
It crashed onto the hardwood floor.
And suddenly, everyone in the room stopped moving.
PART 2:
The glass shattered into dozens of pieces.
For two long seconds, nobody said a word.
Nobody moved.
Then Christopher reacted.
He quickly crouched beside Mason.
“Mason, buddy, you’re just confused,” he said in a calm voice. “Your aunt is resting peacefully.”
“No, she isn’t,” Mason replied.
The little boy sounded completely certain.
“She looked right at me.”
My mother stopped praying.
I watched her slowly walk toward the coffin.
Her legs were shaking.
“Madelyn?” she whispered.
I gathered every bit of strength I had left.
I tried to move my mouth.
A weak sound came out.
A deep, painful groan.
My mother covered her mouth.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Christopher suddenly jumped to his feet and stepped between her and the coffin.
“Mrs. Miller, please,” he said smoothly. “You’re extremely upset. You don’t want to do this to yourself.”
My mother stared at him.
Then her fear turned into anger.
“Get out of my way, Christopher!”
She pushed past him.
She grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden lid and shoved it open.
Bright sunlight flooded my face.
I immediately squeezed my eyes shut.
Then I opened them.
I could finally see the entire room.
My mother screamed.
The women in the kitchen came running.
One aunt crossed herself in shock.
Another grabbed her phone and started calling an ambulance.
Chloe backed away until her back hit the wall.
Christopher said nothing.
He simply stood there.
Frozen.
But there was something in his eyes that frightened me.
There was no relief.
No happiness that I was alive.
Instead, I saw calculation.
He was already thinking about what to do next.
“It must be a severe episode of catalepsy,” he announced loudly. “We need to get her to the emergency room immediately.”
I slowly lifted my head from the white satin pillow.
Everything felt like a dream.
My brain was covered in fog.
But I knew one thing.
I needed to find my sister.
I turned my head.
There she was.
And around her neck was my grandmother’s gold heart necklace.
I raised one shaking hand.
I pointed directly at the necklace.
“Mine…”
The word came out as a weak rasp.
Everyone looked at Chloe.
She immediately touched the necklace.
“Christopher told me you wanted me to have it,” she stammered.
My mother turned toward her.
“Take it off. Right now!”
“Mom, please,” Chloe said. “I can explain.”
“I said take it off!”
Chloe’s hands shook as she tried to open the tiny clasp.
As she struggled with the necklace, another memory came rushing back.
The cinnamon milk.
The bedroom.
Christopher switching off my phone after our argument.
Then I remembered something else.
Something I had almost forgotten.
Just before I lost consciousness, I had heard Christopher speaking quietly in the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about her anymore. Tomorrow she won’t be able to stop a single thing we do.”
The memory made my stomach turn.
The paramedics finally arrived.
One of them knelt beside me.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked gently.
I looked at him.
Then I looked at the open coffin.
I looked at my mother.
I looked at Chloe, now standing against the wall with her bare neck.
“I’m at my own wake,” I whispered.
The paramedic stared at me.
Then I looked directly into his eyes.
“Call the police.”
Christopher suddenly moved toward the front door.
But he never made it outside.
My older cousin Benjamin stepped directly into the doorway.
“Nobody leaves this house until the police arrive,” Benjamin said firmly.
Christopher stopped.
At the emergency clinic, doctors ran a series of tests.
They quickly found something shocking.
My blood contained heavy traces of a powerful prescription sedative.
I had never been prescribed that medication.
I had never taken it.
Someone had put it in my drink.
That afternoon, a detective came to my hospital room.
He took my full statement.
I told him everything.
I explained the strange $42,000 bank transfer.
I told him about the cinnamon milk.
I described the conversation I had heard while trapped inside the coffin.
I told him about the life insurance policy.
Then I explained something else.
The suburban house Christopher and I lived in was legally mine.
And four months earlier, I had inherited a valuable commercial building downtown from my late aunt.
The detective stopped writing.
He looked up.
“Did your husband have access to those property documents?”
A cold feeling spread through my body.
“Yes,” I answered.
Several hours later, the detective returned.
He had more information.
Chloe had been arrested.
Police had stopped her while she was trying to board an intercity bus to Minneapolis.
Inside her belongings, they found two one-way tickets.
They also found my gold necklace hidden inside her purse.
And then they found something even more disturbing.
Certified copies of my original property deeds.
But Christopher was gone.
He had disappeared.
Early the next morning, the lead detective entered my hospital room carrying a thick Manila folder.
“Ma’am,” he said calmly, “we found your husband about an hour ago.”
He paused.
“And what he tried to do this morning proves that your wake was no accident.”
He placed a document on the tray beside my bed.
I stared at it.
It had my name on it.
It had my personal information.
And it carried my signature.
A signature I knew I had never written.
PART 3:
I stared at the document for several seconds before touching it.
It was a legal power of attorney.
The document would have given Christopher full permission to sell my inherited downtown property.
My legal name was printed across the top.
My Social Security number was there.
My address was there.
And at the bottom was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
Almost.
It was just slightly more slanted.
Christopher had tried to use the document that morning at a notary office in downtown Milwaukee.
“The notary recognized him from the police alert sent to local offices,” the detective explained. “She kept him waiting in the lobby by pretending the copy machine was broken while her assistant quietly called 911.”
I stared at him.
“What lie did he tell her?”
The detective shook his head.
“He told her you were in critical condition at the hospital. He claimed you had begged him to sell the property so he could pay for emergency surgery.”
I laughed.
But there was no humor in it.
Even after seeing me open my eyes inside a coffin, Christopher had not given up.
He was still trying to steal everything I owned.
My mother sat silently in a chair near the window.
She began crying again.
“I let those two people into our home,” she whispered. “I trusted both of them.”
I looked at her.
I did not know what to say.
She came over and sat beside me.
“Forgive me, my sweet girl,” she said. “For years, I noticed little things that bothered me. Chloe was always competing with you. And Christopher used to come to our house far too often when you weren’t around. I thought he was just trying to become closer to the family.”
“I thought the same thing, Mom,” I told her.
That was one of the hardest things to admit.
I had noticed things.
The strange looks.
The private jokes.
The uncomfortable silence whenever I entered a room.
I had heard Chloe complain that I always had everything handed to me.
I had seen Christopher defend her far too quickly.
But every time something felt wrong, I convinced myself I was imagining it.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
When you love people who constantly twist the truth, you can slowly learn to distrust your own instincts.
Two days later, the doctors allowed me to leave the hospital.
I temporarily moved into my mother’s house while police continued collecting evidence from my home.
Every night, I slept with the bedroom lights on.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I could smell those funeral lilies again.
I could feel the rough wooden coffin.
I could remember the darkness.
But Mason was different.
He treated me like nothing strange had happened.
One afternoon, he came into my room holding a colorful crayon drawing.
He proudly held it up.
“Look, Aunt Madelyn! It’s you!”
I looked at the picture.
It showed a large wooden box.
Inside was a smiling woman wearing a red superhero cape.
I laughed.
For the first time since waking up inside that coffin, I laughed for real.
Meanwhile, investigators were rebuilding the entire story.
Two neighbors had seen Christopher’s black pickup truck arrive at our driveway and leave during the early morning hours.
Surveillance cameras at a local hardware store showed Christopher buying heavy plastic wrapping and storage boxes several days before my supposed death.
Then police found something inside his glove box.
A flash drive.
It contained digital copies of my personal records.
There were also recent internet searches about life insurance claims.
And searches about selling real estate after someone’s sudden death.
Everything pointed to one conclusion.
This was not a sudden crime.
It had been planned.
Carefully.
Coldly.
But one question remained.
Why had Chloe agreed to help him?
Then Chloe asked to meet me.
She was being held in jail.
Her court-appointed lawyer said she had refused to speak to anyone at first.
But then she learned something.
Christopher was trying to blame everything on her.
He was telling police that Chloe had accidentally given me too many sleeping pills.
That changed her mind.
I agreed to meet her.
Not because I wanted to forgive her.
I needed the truth.
I needed to understand how my own sister could do something like this.
The meeting took place in a small room at the county prosecutor’s office.
When the guard brought Chloe inside, I barely recognized her.
Her hair was tied into a messy bun.
Her face was pale.
She wore no makeup.
Her wrists were handcuffed.
And she was crying.
For most of our lives, I had been the emotional sister.
I cried first.
Chloe stayed calm.
But that day, she could not stop crying.
“I honestly didn’t think you were going to wake up,” she said.
“I already know that,” I replied.
She looked down at the table.
“We never planned to actually kill you.”
I stared at her.
“You were holding a wake for me while I was still breathing.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Christopher told me you were just going to sleep for several hours. He said he would create a fake medical history later and tell everyone you had taken too many sleeping pills because of anxiety.”
I felt sick.
“But when you didn’t wake up the next morning,” she continued, “he panicked.”
“And what about you?”
She looked at me.
“Did you panic?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I was terrified.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “Because at my wake, you looked very comfortable wearing my grandmother’s necklace.”
Her lower lip shook.
“That was a stupid mistake.”
“No, Chloe.”
I leaned closer.
“Forgetting where you parked your car is a stupid mistake. Helping turn your own sister into a corpse before you even knew whether she was dead is something else.”
She suddenly started sobbing.
“You always do this to me!”
I stared at her.
“Do what?”
“You talk to me like you’re morally better than everyone else!”
For a moment, I could not believe what I was hearing.
She was sitting in a room facing serious criminal charges.
I had just survived being drugged and placed inside a coffin.
And she was still angry about my tone of voice.
I took a breath.
“Tell me the truth. How long were you sleeping with my husband?”
She wiped her face.
“Nothing physical happened between us before your wedding.”
“I didn’t ask when it became physical.”
She looked down.
“We talked a lot,” she admitted. “Christopher told me that living with you was all about money, schedules, and control. He said I was the only person who knew how to enjoy life.”
She paused.
“After you got married, we stopped talking for a few months. Then we started meeting secretly again.”
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
For two years, my own sister had sat at my dinner table.
She had celebrated my birthdays.
She had listened to my marriage problems.
Then she had gone home and sent secret messages to my husband.
“How could you?” I whispered.
She began crying again.
“Did you love him?”
She was silent for a long time.
Then she finally answered.
“I just wanted him to choose me over you for once.”
Her answer hurt more than I expected.
“And you thought you had to erase me from his life for him to choose you?”
She looked directly at me.
“You were always the chosen one in our family.”
And suddenly, everything started making sense.
It was about the gold necklace.
The house.
The commercial building my aunt had left me.
Every childhood comparison.
Every argument.
Every time Chloe had believed I was receiving something she deserved.
“When Aunt Sarah died and left you the commercial building,” Chloe said through her tears, “Christopher started telling me he could never become successful while he was with you.”
She continued.
“He said you would keep every penny until the day you died. He wanted to sell the building, invest the money, and move to Minneapolis with me.”
“But I refused to sell it.”
“Because it was mine,” I said.
“That’s exactly what he said was wrong,” Chloe replied. “He said everything in your life was always yours.”
“Because it was.”
She covered her face.
“I know that now.”
For the first time, my anger changed.
I felt exhausted.
Christopher had not created Chloe’s jealousy.
But he had learned how to use it.
He had taken years of childhood resentment and turned it into a weapon.
“Who decided to hold the wake at Mom’s house?” I asked.
Chloe trembled.
“Christopher.”
“How did you get a coffin so quickly?”
She hesitated.
“Someone he knew worked at a small funeral home on the south side. Christopher called him and said you had died unexpectedly at home. He said our family wanted a private viewing before taking you to the hospital.”
My stomach twisted.
“He paid him thousands of dollars in cash,” Chloe added. “He promised the official death certificate would come later.”
“And nobody checked my pulse?”
She shook her head.
“Everyone was rushing. Your skin was cold, and you weren’t responding. Mom was completely devastated. Christopher kept telling everyone there was no reason to take you to the hospital because there was nothing doctors could do.”
Chloe’s face changed.
“I should have stopped him.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “You should have.”
I did not comfort her.
Then I asked the question I had been dreading.
“What about the poison?”
Chloe looked down.
“He got the medication online.”
My stomach tightened.
“I crushed the pills.”
Those words destroyed whatever small piece of love I still had for her.
She had not simply watched.
She had helped.
She had crushed the pills.
She had prepared my drink.
She had handed me the mug with a warm smile.
“Why warm milk with cinnamon?” I asked.
She began crying harder.
“Because I knew you would drink it without asking questions.”
I clenched my hands beneath the table.
That was the worst part.
They had not needed to break into my house.
They already knew how to get through my front door.
They knew what I liked.
They knew what I trusted.
They knew exactly how to make me lower my guard.
I slowly stood.
“Do not ever tell me that you loved me again, Chloe.”
She looked up at me desperately.
“I really did love you, Madelyn!”
“Then learn this,” I told her. “Love means nothing if, at the most important moment of someone’s life, you choose to destroy them.”
I turned around.
Then I walked out.
PART 4:
Two weeks later, I was allowed to meet Christopher face-to-face at the county jail.
He had been asking his lawyer to arrange the meeting ever since his arrest.
His lawyer said a private conversation might clear up some misunderstandings.
I agreed only after the prosecutor told me it would not hurt the case.
Christopher and I sat across from each other.
A thick sheet of bulletproof glass separated us.
He looked thinner than before.
He was wearing a bright orange jail uniform.
But somehow, he still had that same calm expression.
That same confident look.
It was the look that had convinced me for seven years that he was always the reasonable one.
“You look remarkably well, Madelyn,” he said through the telephone receiver.
“For a woman who was supposed to be dead and buried, I suppose I do.”
His face immediately became serious.
“I never wanted things to end like this.”
“How did you want them to end?”
He looked away.
“You were just asleep.”
He said it without hesitation.
“We were organizing some financial documents so we could start fresh. We would have found a reasonable solution later.”
“Fix what?” I asked.
“My house?”
“My life insurance?”
“Or your secret relationship with my sister?”
“Chloe was never my lover in the way you think.”
I stared at him.
“Well, that certainly makes me feel better.”
He sighed.
Then he shook his head.
“Madelyn, you know how difficult it was living with you. Everything always had to happen your way.”
“No, Christopher.”
I looked directly at him.
“My decisions simply had to be made with my permission.”
“You never let me take financial risks.”
“Because taking a financial risk doesn’t mean forging my signature on property documents.”
For the first time, he looked down.
“I had a brilliant plan,” he muttered. “I could have multiplied that money five times.”
“And I had every right to refuse to gamble my inheritance.”
He put his hand against the glass.
“If you agree to drop some of the fraud charges, we can solve all of this quietly. Chloe is telling the police terrible things because she wants to save herself. You know how unstable she is.”
He paused.
“I’ll return every dollar. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll disappear from your life.”
I stared at him.
Even in jail, he was trying to negotiate my life like a business deal.
“Do you want to know what I heard while I was inside that coffin?”
He did not answer.
“It wasn’t the insurance money.”
I paused.
“It wasn’t your plans to move to Minneapolis.”
“It wasn’t even the conversation about the poisoned milk.”
His face remained still.
“I heard you laugh when Chloe asked if there was any chance I might wake up.”
His throat moved.
“You were heavily sedated,” he said. “You’re obviously confusing memories with a nightmare.”
I smiled slightly.
“And there it is again.”
“What?”
“You’re still trying to convince me that my own brain needs your permission to understand what happened.”
I stood up.
“For seven years, it worked.”
He looked at me.
“You made me doubt every uncomfortable feeling I had. You made me apologize whenever I questioned you. You made me believe I was the problem.”
I placed my hand against the glass.
“But I had to wake up inside a coffin to understand something.”
He said nothing.
“When someone makes you doubt your own eyes just so you will keep loving them, they don’t love you.”
I looked him directly in the eyes.
“They are controlling you.”
His expression changed.
“Madelyn, please think about this.”
“I already have.”
I picked up the receiver.
“I am not withdrawing a single charge.”
“Madelyn, please!”
“And never contact me again.”
I hung up.
Then I walked away.
I never looked back.
The district attorney filed serious charges against both Christopher and Chloe.
The charges included attempted murder, major fraud, and document forgery.
There was a huge amount of evidence.
There were camera recordings.
There were witnesses.
There were financial records.
There were digital files.
There were the forged documents.
And there were my own memories of the conversation I heard while trapped inside that coffin.
For the first time in my life, the truth did not depend on whether someone believed me because they loved me.
The evidence spoke for itself.
My mother began attending grief counseling every week.
One evening, she sat beside me and admitted that praying alone was not enough.
“I spent years comparing my two daughters without realizing how much damage it was causing,” she said.
I listened.
I did not argue.
A few months later, I put my suburban house up for sale.
I did not sell it because Christopher and Chloe had destroyed it for me.
I sold it because I wanted to make the decision for myself.
For the first time in my adult life, I wanted to choose what moving forward actually meant.
With the money from the sale, I bought a bright, comfortable apartment near downtown Milwaukee.
I also took full control of my late aunt’s commercial property.
I renovated the building.
I painted the brick walls white.
I hung beautiful linen curtains.
And in the main entrance, I placed a framed photograph of my grandmother.
Then I put the gold heart necklace around my neck again.
It had finally come home.
I no longer wore it because I believed it could protect me.
I wore it because it reminded me that I had survived.
Mason still visits me on Sunday afternoons.
We never talk about the coffin as something terrifying.
To him, it is simply the strange family story about the day his aunt opened her eyes and made every adult in the room panic.
Maybe that is better.
I still remember everything.
The smell of the lilies.
The rough wood.
The darkness.
The weight of the silver cross.
The sound of my husband giving away my belongings.
The sight of my sister wearing my favorite necklace while everyone believed I was dead.
But more than anything, I remember that tiny crack in the coffin.
That narrow line of light.
For months, I thought that crack was simply a lucky accident.
I thought it had saved my physical life.
Now I see it differently.
The crack did not save me.
It simply gave me a chance to lie still and hear the truth.
What saved me was finally deciding to believe what I heard.
There are countless people walking through life who are not trapped inside wooden coffins.
But they are still trapped.
They hear the insults.
They see the lies.
They notice the manipulation.
They feel the betrayal.
Yet they keep making excuses.
They tell themselves things are not as bad as they seem.
They tell themselves they are imagining things.
They tell themselves that the people they love could never hurt them.
I know because I did exactly the same thing.
I had to wake up during my own wake before I finally understood.
They had already prepared for my absence.
They had already divided my belongings.
They had already planned where they would go.
They had bus tickets.
They had forged documents.
They had a story ready for everyone.
They were prepared for a world in which I would never speak again.
But I did speak.
I survived.
And I contradicted every lie they had prepared.
Today, when someone asks me about the scariest moment of my life, I do not say it was the moment I opened my eyes inside a coffin.
The scariest moment was realizing that the two people who knew me best had used everything they knew about me to try to erase me.
They knew what I drank.
They knew what I trusted.
They knew what I loved.
They knew how to make me feel safe.
And they used that knowledge against me.
When people ask me about the most important moment of my life, I do not say it was when my mother opened the coffin.
It was the moment I made a promise to myself.
I promised that I would never again close my eyes simply to make other people comfortable.
I would never again ignore what my instincts were telling me.
I would never again allow someone else to convince me that I was imagining the truth.
Because sometimes the warning signs are right in front of us.
Sometimes the truth is hiding behind a smile.
Sometimes betrayal comes from the people we trust most.
And sometimes, all it takes is one tiny crack of light to show us what has really been happening in the darkness.
I woke up inside my own coffin.
But I also woke up to the truth.
And this time, I kept my eyes open.
THE END.
I really appreciate your story and like seeing more stories about domestic abuse gets the word out there. Thank you