breathing prescription is expired.

screech screech

good morning, world.

her hand jerks out from under the threadbare covers, aims for the snooze button, and knocks the clock floor-bound. her eyelids are midway through the efforts of lifting open, and the invisible claws already clench at her throat in their ravenous vice. dammit dammit dammit. as her corneas blur her bedroom in and out of existence, her eyes dart wildly around, searching desperately for a flicker of yellow plastic on the dresser. she needs that inhaler to feel okay. she needs that tube of medicated vapours.

there it was. that familiar mist of sanctuary, an escape from herself, the antidote to living--all in a single plastic tube connected to a mouthpiece on the dresser. breathing ragged, her vision blurs everything else as she staggers toward it. finally, her fingers clutch at the inhaler's hard plastic, and she yanks it to her lips, sucking the air into her lungs with early-morning panic and desperation. as she breathes in, the cool vapours soothe her bloodstream, and her heartbeat relaxes. inhale, and her eyes zoom and focus back into twenty-twenty vision. exhale, and she is relieved. inhale again, and she is calm. she never understands why her breath is so drawn to the drug-filled air particles from that plastic tube, but she doesn't care. now, she can battle the world for another morning. now, she is okay.

now is only for now, though. by the time the bell rings for the second passing period, she is instinctively reaching into her purse to steal another puff. this happens third period, and maybe fourth period too. the classes melt in and out of her memory like footsteps in the muddy, half-thawed winter slurry on the sidewalks outside. the only interruption is lunch hour, when the cool, impersonal glares of the other students turn to splintering, hard-edged ice, and rough elbows begin to appear among the cold shoulders. she bites her lip as she contemplates the cafeteria doors. no, she dares not buy her lunch there. instead, she turns on her heel and, head ducked down, darts to the nearest girls' bathroom. in a stall moments later, the medicated vapours of the inhaler benevolently envelops her in some semblance of comfort. it takes several drags, but eventually she can sigh back onto the toilet seat, shoulders relaxed. maybe she can stay here until english class.

the afternoon classes pass as uneventfully as the morning's--in a daze, automatically mumbling a proper BS response to the teacher's occasional inquiry. before long, she is free to take one final pull from the inhaler before moseying off to the bus home. once she stumbles through the garage door fifteen minutes later, she can make immediately for her bedroom and collapse on the worn mattress, unfettered from this consciousness for a few hours.

at seven-thirty, though, her eyes flutter open and her heart tightens as always. so she sets her lips to the tube once again and the air rushes into her lungs like water pours into the open floodgates of a blue whale's mouth. but this time, the vapours barely soothe. disbelieving, she draws another drag, then another. and another. and another. but the last remnants of the medication have faded away. trembling, her fingers yank the inhaler from her lips and her eyes fall upon its label. NO REFILLS.

shaking, she lets the inhaler clatter to the carpet as the walls converge on her, constricting her throat so she can't breathe anymore.