You can’t breathe. It’s hardware failure, the machine that pumps air into a hose that connects to a hole in your throat is letting you down. That isn’t exactly right, it’s really the hose that’s letting you down, an unexpected disconnection. Air that’s supposed to be rushing into your lungs is rushing nowhere in particular, steady and quiet-like. You’re quiet too, you can’t yell, you can’t move. You’re also quite alone, alone and not breathing.
Taking a moment, after the initial shock fades, you find that you can manage little gulps of air. The muscles in your chest aren’t entirely useless. So, you breathe small breaths, shallow breaths. You know that these breaths will be gone soon enough, that your chest will tire of its job. All you can do is space your breathing, not waste anything in panic. There’s really no reason to panic. Someone will either find you, or they won’t. You’ll either die, or you won’t. You’re strangely calm on these points.
You think about a woman, the one you used to think about to feel safe in these situations. You think about how she’s gone and far away, disconnected. You miss that connection to her more than you miss the connection that would bring air into your lungs. You know it’s ridiculous, but you also know it’s absolutely true. You wonder if you’ll ever feel that kind of connection again. You wonder if you’ll write about this later. You hear air rushing to nowhere, you wait.8 comments
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