Just Breathe
671 Words
The man in the corner is folded over on himself, one hand clutching his chest.
His breathing isn’t just labored.
It’s desperate.
Every inhale sounds like he’s trying to suck air through a coffee stirrer.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I scramble to my knees.
Every muscle protests.
My wrists scream.
My head still pounds from whatever they drugged me with.
None of it matters.
Not anymore.
My fear quietly steps aside.
Training takes over.
Patient first.
Everything else later.
I shuffle across the concrete as fast as my bound hands allow.
“Hey.”
No response.
“Hey!”
His eyes barely open.
His skin is pale.
Too pale.
A sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead.
His breaths are rapid, shallow.
Wrong.
Everything about this is wrong.
“I need to examine you.”
He lets out something between a laugh and a groan.
“Hands…” he rasps.
“Right. Minor design flaw.”
I lean closer, trying to watch his chest rise.
One side barely moves.
I need to feel for injuries.
I can’t.
My hands are cuffed behind my back.
I grit my teeth.
“Fantastic timing.”
I spin toward the steel door.
Then I start kicking.
Hard.
The clang echoes through the room.
Again.
Again.
Again.
“Open the damn door!”
Nothing.
I kick harder.
“If you want him alive, you’d better get in here!”
The lock clicks.
The scarred man steps inside.
Calm.
Of course he’s calm.
Because apparently attempted murder is easier when you’re emotionally unavailable.
“He’s dying!” I yell.
“You need to help him!”
Nothing.
“He can’t breathe!”
He walks toward me.
Hope flickers.
Then he shoves me.
Hard.
The back of my head smashes against the concrete.
White explodes across my vision.
For a second, I forget which way is up.
I roll onto my side.
Warm liquid trickles behind my ear.
Scalp laceration.
Headache worsening.
Probably bleeding.
Not the priority.
Focus.
The man wheels a stainless-steel tray into the room.
Then… nothing.
He doesn’t kneel beside the prisoner.
He doesn’t look concerned.
He simply positions the cart beside him.
My confusion outweighs my anger.
Medical supplies?
He turns toward me.
Before I can react, his hand buries itself in my hair at the base of my scalp.
Pain tears through my neck as he jerks my head backward.
I hiss through my teeth.
“Let go!”
He ignores me.
Metal clicks.
My wrists suddenly feel…
Light.
The handcuffs fall to the floor.
He releases my hair.
Turns.
Walks out.
The door slams shut behind him.
I stare after him.
“…You’re kidding.”
No explanation.
No threats.
No instructions.
Just…
Freedom.
I don’t waste a second rubbing my wrists.
The man behind me sucks in another desperate breath.
Professional mode.
Go.
I drop beside him.
His shirt is in the way.
“Sorry.”
I grip the fabric and rip it open.
The sound echoes through the room.
My brain briefly registers a muscular chest beneath the dirt and bruises.
Really?
Now?
He’s suffocating, Willa.
You can admire him later if he survives.
If either of us survives.
The bruising spreads across one side of his ribs.
Dark purple.
Fresh.
I press gently.
He winces.
His breathing worsens.
I look at his neck.
Look at his chest.
Think.
Rapid respirations.
One side barely expanding.
Chest trauma.
Air hunger.
My stomach drops.
No…
Please don’t be…
I check again.
No stethoscope.
No monitor.
No X-ray.
Just my eyes.
And instinct.
Tension pneumothorax.
He’s running out of time.
I slowly turn toward the stainless-steel tray.
Scalpels.
Forceps.
Sterile drapes.
Sutures.
Needles.
Someone stocked this.
Someone knew this might happen.
I’ve watched this procedure.
I’ve assisted.
I’ve never been the one responsible.
My hands begin to shake.
I close my eyes.
Just for one second.
“You don’t get to panic,” I whisper to myself.
“Not until he’s breathing.”
Then I reach for the tray.
- Writer
