It feels like I have been taken back in time. To the time when everything I slipped through my hands.
I laid there watching familiarity fade into the distance. I inhaled once deeply. The scent that lingered around dissipated. I took a second breath. It wasn’t there. My trachea constricted and I gasped for air. Third. Forth. Fifth breath. It was gone. It was gone.
My hands grew cold and my body stiffened. My left hand grabbed my chest, as I curled up into a ball. Each inhalation proved to be harder than the previous. My breaths shortened and quickened. I clenched my right hand into a fist.
I laid there, in a fetal position. Gasping for air as my body tensed up. It gave a shiver and jolted.
I jolted up and sat on my bed, with both my arms propping myself up. My chest thumped. In and out. I clinched the bedsheets. My head throbbed. What. What is happening.
I turned my head. To your side. The sheets were flat. Neat. Unmeddled with. The little indentions you left on the bed were no longer there. I clinched the sheets tighter. The scent was gone. You are gone.
I am scared of falling asleep. I am scared of that feeling. That fear that chokes me. That helplessness that sets in. That incomprehension of reality.
I don’t want to wake up gripped with fear, pain and brokenness. I don’t want to wake up knowing that you’re gone again. I don’t want to ever wake up.
I can’t do this again.