Written By You

The Fall – A Short Story in Three Parts – Part Two

The Fall – A Short Story in Three Parts – Part Three

The second of a three part short story. If you missed the beginning, start reading here

 

My hands have no feeling.

My feet up to my lower thigh is numb. My stomach and chest is icy cold. I feel so light-headed I might as well faint. I have propped up my rigid body by a peeling black-painted gate which is pricking my back.

Someone stole my blanket, and now I am as good as a chunk of ice.

I know this is my fault. This is all my fault. Shaking terribly, my hand picks up a tiny, plastic, sealed bag, and I gradually tip its contents into the cigarette, as my frozen limbs ache and complain from the movement. I coax my arm into sticking the cigarette into my mouth, and I inhale deeply.

My depression, my misery, my pain… eases. Everything stretches and bends in alarming ways, yet I feel no fear. I am in a strange daydream, where I am… happy.

That emotion is entirely mysterious to me, as I have been a stranger to happiness for a while. Tunes begin playing, I start nodding, bobbing, and twitching.  

Funny hallucinations fill my view. I chuckle, I giggle, I laugh. Everything seems great. Then everything fades, and I cannot remember anything else. Turning light grey, to deep grey, to black.

***

On awakening, my limbs are even stiffer, I am even more icy, my breathing is rapid, and I am running out of air. Trying to slow my breathing… in… out… in… out… fails, as I run out of air completely half-way through, and I cough and cough and cough.

My frail body shakes, and I turn back to my hurried breathing. I need help. But I don’t want help.
I have never wanted help. Never.  

Every time I make a change in my life, which is usually for the worst, I recite the words: You will do fine BY YOUR SELF. You will do fine BY YOUR SELF. I am stubborn and have always relied on myself. I hate being dependent on anyone. But this time…

My view is twisting and turning about, and now it is very alarming. I very nearly shove my hand back into my pocket to fumble for another cigarette and my special, tiny, plastic bag.

I force myself against it. I lie to myself, telling myself that I’ll have one in a bit.

I miss a breath, and then I know it is serious. I lurch my body forward with my last bolt of energy, and my hand clutches onto the nearest leg.

Collapsing, I hope for the best.

 

 

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