He watches me with no expression as I lie on the kitchen floor and awkwardly arch my back, trying to procure another breath. I feel I have no more energy to ask him to help me. The blank stare which he gives me shows his disinterest. Nothing more than an object to be watched, judged, denied, I crush another pill between my molars, praying for another day.
If he could see what I could do, maybe he’d think twice about hurting me. If I could make him proud, he’d let me breathe again. He never would have made me stop.
But he’s seen it many times, never pleased nor proud, certainly not affected. Nothing penetrates this shell.
I writhe again. I didn’t think I could speak anymore, but somehow words are gurgling in my throat. Please, I plead. I need help.
No.
You – did this to me. I know I’m wasting precious air when it passes through my lips. Help me. Please.
Another stimulant, another powdery pill and it doesn’t matter. But Someone wants me to live, to have another day. I let my thoughts drift in and out once there is nothing more to say, preparing myself for the welcoming arms of that same Someone. But deliverance comes in another way. Hours later, I am still alive and literally crawl to my bed, amazed to wake to a new dawn.
Etcetera 