He twisted and turned in an agonized fury, trying to escape the rope that bound him inside of the buried coffin. If he could just reach a little farther into his pants’ pocket, he would be able to grab his pocket knife so that he could attempt to cut the ropes off. But after he got the ropes off, what would he do? He was buried underneath six feet of dirt. Even if he tried, nobody would hear him scream and shout. There was no hope. He could help end it quicker by using his pocket knife not on the rope, but on his wrists instead. The bleeding would cause him to have decreased oxygen levels much quicker than just waiting for the coffin to fill with his own carbon dioxide. He had never considered suicide before, he never had a reason to; but he wanted to end it all sooner; no slow death for him. So, he did it. He slit his wrists and bled out, finally able to lie comfortably in what would be his final resting place.