Trying to force open your heavy eyelids, only darkness surrounds you. It doesn’t take long to notice the walls blocking you in on all sides, barely an inch of room to move. Panic starts to set in as you wriggle around in the small box. The air is thick and hot as you gasp for breath, each inhale never seeming like enough. You pound on the lid, bits of dirt trickling through the wood.

It felt like a fever dream, you remembered being struck down, you remembered dying. But here you were alive, screaming out in vain, buried 6 feet beneath several tons of dirt.

You calm down enough to notice the faint sound of rustling above you, the sound of a shovel. At this point you’ve screamed your voice hoarse, scratching at the wooden boards, you do everything you can to make yourself known. It's not long before a familiar face is prying the lid away, smirking down at you.

“Oh don’t look so sour, I told you I always have a plan.” Damon says, lifting you to your feet and holding your trembling body close. Of course he had secretly slipped some of his blood into your drink before your untimely death. Bringing you back, as a vampire nonetheless, whether you wanted him to or not.