Wheezer

Photo by Greg Panagiotoglou on Unsplash

The predawn light was worse than night time. It cast ethereal purple light just shy of darkness through the shaded windows of my home. Sinister shadows sought an audience with the corners of my eyes, causing me to jump at nothing in the dimly lit living room.

Then I heard it.

Wheeze.

It came from the study, it always came from the study. That dark corner of the house where my airways once nearly suffocated me.

Wheeze.

I felt it in my chest, the tightness, the tickle in my throat and the quickening of my shortened breath.

Wheeze.

This would play out how it always played out, nothing would stop it, so I decided to get it over with.

Wheeze.

I moved as if in slow motion, as if my legs wouldn’t work, even though this time I was moving towards the danger and not away from it. It did not matter, he would make sure I knew I was powerless. I moved into the darkened corridor and opened the door into the dimly lit room. Dark save for the sickly light cast by the monitor.

He was there, standing well above any ordinary man, built like he wielded the raw, terrifying strength of a bull, square shoulders and veins throbbing over unnatural muscles. And he turned towards me.

His eyes were only white, save the blood shot tendrils clawing inwards from the edges, and his teeth were bared in a permanently lock jawed grimace.

Wheeze.

He moved towards me.

I flailed back,

I was upon me,

I fought with all of the strength I had, but I was nothing but a useless, weak child.

Wheeze.

His arms encircled my chest and he squeezed, ribs cracked and popped, lungs squashed, and his taunting wheeze was mimicked in my own throat. He opened his mouth.

I gasped awake and fumbled for the inhaler I kept on my bedside table, sweating and wheezing and in a state of panic. My fingers enclosed around the life saving device, I put it to my lips and puffed.

The inhaler was empty, I always thought that the sound of an inhaler running dry – the sickly, breathless coughing noise it made – was what anxiety would sound like if it were a physical thing.

“Are you alright, baby?” My girlfriend’s fingers caressed my back, and some calm returned.

“Yeah, hon.” I croaked, “I just need to grab my spare, go back to sleep.”

She mumbled something incoherently and turned over in the bed.

I left her there and went to the kitchen cupboard where I kept a stash of extras, I tore open the packaging and inhaled sweet relief.

I felt the stinging in my lungs relax as I sucked down clear air freely and sighed.

“Why won’t you leave me alone you fucker?” I said, leaning my head against the cupboard door.

I checked the microwave clock, 04:55, a little before dawn. I wouldn’t be getting much else sleep this morning so I popped the kettle on and strode into the living room while it boiled.

The predawn light was worse than night time. It cast ethereal purple light just shy of darkness through the shaded windows of my home. Sinister shadows sought an audience with the corners of my eyes, causing me to jump at nothing in the dimly lit living room.

Then I heard it.

Wheeze.

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