I wake up at 3 o’clock in the morning. My chest is hissing suffocating melodies of a possibly death.
I try to think of the possibly foods that I may have ingested early in the afternoon that could have triggered such a dooming event. I can not think of anything, really. It appears that my body is trying to snuff itself.
I wouldn’t blame him.
My body has to suffer under the german laster of a dubitative mind. I question everything and my state of mind is a constant hell. I suppose that my soul aches my physical ego. My mere existance is a torture to my body. I may be a parasite, a sickness that could only be cured by self-destruction.
The hissing, now increscendo, warns me of an incoming tragedy. Although I am no stranger to these near-death experiences, I haven’t got used to the fact that maybe… maybe in a few minutes I’ll have a last breath.
I try to pump some good ol’ 25 µg of salbutamol plus another 25 µg salmeterol. This should so it.
Fuck, it doesn’t work. What the heck I’m I supposed to do if this crap doesn’t stop my upcoming asphyxia?
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… Then I remember! Downstairs I have prepared two days ago a tea-pot with asthma-relieving medicinal herbs, ready to be boiled with a scoop of mentholatum cream. This could be the answer! I have to inhale the vapors of that mix, before my condition worsens. I have to get to the kitchen fast.
But if I don’t…
… I wonder what an awful surprise could my parents have if my breathless corpse, were to be found lying on the recently polished wall tile early in the morning.
My body is sick of the constant conflict of my mind.
I shall die for the everlasting peace of my corp/se.
The deadly wheezing sound becomes almost unbearable to my ears.
I drag myself out of bed to the entrance of my room.
“Mom… Dad… turn off… the… alarm” – I cough every word out out my mouth risking my in-take of oxygen.
Mom and Dad are asleep, no help comes from them. I guess this is the moment when one is the most atheist at its purest.
Let me explain, that my house has an alarm system, which can only be deactivated through two methods. Either, someone tipps the requiered numeric combination on one of the two panel boards (one located next to my house’s door and the other one in my parent’s bedroom) OR someone calls from a cellphone to my house telephone number and does the same, but virtually.
I fish out my cellphone out my jeans and make the call. The telephone rings. I hope that mom and dad won’t wake up, but then I think that it is better to find their only son still alive than my silent lifeless body on the floor.
I am able to deactivate the alarm, without waking up my parents.
Finally I exit my bedroom and I proceed to go downstairs.
Shit, now this is a hell of a task. Every move one makes is every breath one takes.
Ha – ha – ha The Police, your song is the perfect cruel mockery of my situation.
Every step empowers my suffocation.
I can’t go on. I can’t. I can’t. I sit on the stairs.
What if mom and dad continue sleeping and nobody rescues me? What if the situation gets even dire and I die on the spot?
I’d deserve that I guess.
It was three years ago, when Michael was still alive. He was one of the beloved boxers dad had as pets. I still remember him with his golden brown fur and a black snout. He looked like the ideal model for a pet’s magazine.
But one day, a sickness struck him.
Either me, dad, or the vet, didn’t knew what the hell was it.
What we did knew were the consecuences.
Every night Michael woke up and strolled around our swimming pool in the garden. Eventually he always fell inside, with the apparent intention of killing himself. Nevertheless once inside, he paddled desperately in order to keep himself on the surface.
Every night at 3 o’clock the loud sound of his doggie paddles woke me up and I had to get out of my bed, tell my parents to turn off the alarm, and pull him out with the help of my dad. Almost every night.
But one night I was sick of it, and I simply slept through it.
Then I woke up again.
It was dead silent.
Remorse creeped inside me.
When I got off my bed and told my parent to turn off the alarm, to fish him out of the pool… it was too late.
I remember that I had to dive in to retrieve his corpse.
“Maybe this is it” – I think “Maybe the award for my previous neglect is a one-way ticket to hell”.
Now I feel like the worst scum on earth. I could have saved him, but then I didn’t.
Now that every consideration for the last fight for my life vanishes, a last thought comes to my brain.
Then, why the hell Michael was so eager to die?
Was he in real pain?
My pain is most of the time not physical, but psychological. The only escape to this burden is death.
But I don’t wanna stroll around the pool like he did, regardless of my painful existence.
I’m sorry Michael, but I guess I won’t be knocking at the doors of heaven anytime soon (asuming that I would even go there).
With the little strength that I have left, I crawl myself downstairs to the kitchen.
I light the stove, and patiently wait until I smell the odour of euchalyptus invading the kitchen air space. I open the tea-pot and I take the deepest breath of my life.
My lungs widen themselves and oxygen winds itself inside the many paths of my dying organism.
I’m alive. I am still alive.