Breathe, Just Breathe
by Clare Kelly
Day in and day out, I see the inside of a deep, narrow niche. I do not see the light of day; the darkness has become my companion. When I climb to the top of the niche, there are these teeth on a track with a human-powered train that allows the opening and closing of my hideaway to the rest of the world—something that only comes occasionally. Materialistically in this void, I am not alone, for in here with me lies this rectangular object with a smooth texture and a hard structure—I don’t know what to call it—but it’s my counterpart that remains close to the soft, malleable bag I use to relax upon.
Regularly, I am tossed around in this darkened niche, only seeing the blinding light when I’m about to be used. It’s not very often—I know it’s absolutely unacceptable. You would think my captor would have the prudence and sense to use me, at least once and a while; but no, she has the audacity to refuse me. Clare actually decides, and in my perspective prefers, to suffer through her anxiety and stress without me. She’s completely ludicrous. Clare claims to have a 4.0 grade point average and is allegedly the interim president of her school’s honors society, but her commonsense exists just as unicorns and goblins walk the earth today—it doesn’t.
Wheezing. There she goes again with her breathing problems sounding like a dying bird: jeez, girl, are you trying to making everyone deaf or does it just come naturally when you try to -breathe? With each breath, her lungs propel a high-pitch squeal that cuts through the air like a knife. Why doesn’t she just connect me to my counterpart and take a puff, or cut out the middleman and use me directly? I realize I have some side effects, but that awful wheezing gets on my nerves. It makes me want to smother her, it really does, and don’t put it past me either. If I could reveal my hidden talent—the ability to speak from my cherry-red mouth piece that serves as a backpack for the vertical cylinder that holds the albuterol sulfate—I would give Clare a piece of my mind. In one way, I could induce her anxiety, forcing her to have to use me—bwahaha. On the other hand, I don’t know any humans who ever used their meds again once we started speaking to them. Regardless of whether I reveal my identity, which isn’t out of the question, Clare needs to understand that when she has breathing problems, I am the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation that will help her breathe properly again. I am her hero, her knight in shining plastic, ready to save her from the immediate dangers of lung spasm. I give Clare the feeling of relief when she takes that fateful deep breath of oxygen.
The most prominent causes and symptoms of her asthma include anxiety, stress, allergies, and exercise—the former two being the most prone reasons for an asthmatic attack. From past experiences in academics and life, I know Clare has great amounts of anxiety and stress; she pushes herself and holds herself to such high standards. She’s always shoving large, rectangular objects with pointed corners against my small habitat; these must be the rumored objects students use—despicable. Having and using many of these objects still isn’t an excuse for Clare to push around her lifesaver: me. I realize Clare’s past experiences with her abusive mother caused this anxiety to become present in both her system and her life; but, that’s no excuse! In fact, she should be using me more because of her mother. I am the only instrument with the chivalrous and gallant ability to relieve her from those symptoms. Only I can do the job and a stellar one at that.
Wheezing. Why must it continue? Yesterday she wheezed, today she’s wheezing, tomorrow—just you wait, she’ll be wheezing. Clare’s always on my nerves—all day, every day —I hear her struggle to catch her breath after laughing or preventing an overtake of anxiety. Maybe if she’d stop laughing every second of the day, she wouldn’t be suffering so much. It’s very aggravating, hearing her lungs cry out for me, and it’s even more frustrating to hear their complaints. Like, what do you want me to do about it? Even on a good day, her antics cause me to use every essence of albuterol sulfate in my chamber to withhold myself from bursting out of my solitary confinement. Clare rarely surrenders to compliance, but when she does, she puts my own anxieties at ease and her usage helps me to realize she’s not always a crazy oxygen-deprived human without boundaries—she’s normal, or at least that’s what the other humans seem to believe.
Regularly, I am tossed around in this darkened niche, only seeing the blinding light when I’m about to be used. It’s not very often—I know it’s absolutely unacceptable. You would think my captor would have the prudence and sense to use me, at least once and a while; but no, she has the audacity to refuse me. Clare actually decides, and in my perspective prefers, to suffer through her anxiety and stress without me. She’s completely ludicrous. Clare claims to have a 4.0 grade point average and is allegedly the interim president of her school’s honors society, but her commonsense exists just as unicorns and goblins walk the earth today—it doesn’t.
Wheezing. There she goes again with her breathing problems sounding like a dying bird: jeez, girl, are you trying to making everyone deaf or does it just come naturally when you try to -breathe? With each breath, her lungs propel a high-pitch squeal that cuts through the air like a knife. Why doesn’t she just connect me to my counterpart and take a puff, or cut out the middleman and use me directly? I realize I have some side effects, but that awful wheezing gets on my nerves. It makes me want to smother her, it really does, and don’t put it past me either. If I could reveal my hidden talent—the ability to speak from my cherry-red mouth piece that serves as a backpack for the vertical cylinder that holds the albuterol sulfate—I would give Clare a piece of my mind. In one way, I could induce her anxiety, forcing her to have to use me—bwahaha. On the other hand, I don’t know any humans who ever used their meds again once we started speaking to them. Regardless of whether I reveal my identity, which isn’t out of the question, Clare needs to understand that when she has breathing problems, I am the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation that will help her breathe properly again. I am her hero, her knight in shining plastic, ready to save her from the immediate dangers of lung spasm. I give Clare the feeling of relief when she takes that fateful deep breath of oxygen.
The most prominent causes and symptoms of her asthma include anxiety, stress, allergies, and exercise—the former two being the most prone reasons for an asthmatic attack. From past experiences in academics and life, I know Clare has great amounts of anxiety and stress; she pushes herself and holds herself to such high standards. She’s always shoving large, rectangular objects with pointed corners against my small habitat; these must be the rumored objects students use—despicable. Having and using many of these objects still isn’t an excuse for Clare to push around her lifesaver: me. I realize Clare’s past experiences with her abusive mother caused this anxiety to become present in both her system and her life; but, that’s no excuse! In fact, she should be using me more because of her mother. I am the only instrument with the chivalrous and gallant ability to relieve her from those symptoms. Only I can do the job and a stellar one at that.
Wheezing. Why must it continue? Yesterday she wheezed, today she’s wheezing, tomorrow—just you wait, she’ll be wheezing. Clare’s always on my nerves—all day, every day —I hear her struggle to catch her breath after laughing or preventing an overtake of anxiety. Maybe if she’d stop laughing every second of the day, she wouldn’t be suffering so much. It’s very aggravating, hearing her lungs cry out for me, and it’s even more frustrating to hear their complaints. Like, what do you want me to do about it? Even on a good day, her antics cause me to use every essence of albuterol sulfate in my chamber to withhold myself from bursting out of my solitary confinement. Clare rarely surrenders to compliance, but when she does, she puts my own anxieties at ease and her usage helps me to realize she’s not always a crazy oxygen-deprived human without boundaries—she’s normal, or at least that’s what the other humans seem to believe.
header image by Mareefe on PIXNIO