Takin' Names.

She woke with a strange ache in her throat, nose irritated as though she had laughed too hard while taking a drink. The pleather of the couch was hot; it stuck to her face and the underside of her arm which she had been leaning on. When she opened her eyes, a sleepy but rigid fear struck her. Everything was white. She blinked rapidly, but nothing changed. A cough.
Weakly, she drug herself off of the tired piece of furniture and moved through the living room blindly. Another cough. She could barely breathe. There was something wrong, every nerve of her being told her, sluggish as it was. She stumbled into the bathroom, a dinky little room with bright yellow walls—she could see the yellow. The white wasn’t as thick and she could breathe easier. She closed the door, still blinking as though that would help it to go away. The air carried a foul smell like cleaning chemicals—or…
Moving swiftly, she stepped out of the bathroom and immediately moved to the front door of the house. It was 3a.m. and yet it was unlocked. Why—but she didn’t have time to consider the implications. The door swung on its hinges and a stream of frothy smoke rushed out into the black night as though a vacuum had been situated on the other side of the frame. Without pause, she went to each of the four sliding windows in the kitchen and the living room, pulling them open as far as they would give.
More of the white that had been leeching the oxygen out of her lungs and making her choke now crashed through the branches of trees, over the porch and past the idle vehicles in the drive, vengeful spirits crying unto the hour. Crumbling she realized her chest was sour with the stench, her nose dripping as if it could dispel the torment. The front door was a square of grey cut up by fervent orange and dwindling shade. Her lips parted, flapping like that of a fish you might drag out of choppy waters.
It felt good. A chill bit at her arms, her cheeks and her toes, ushering her, boxing her into the house but she held. Shallow sips of the breeze nursed her sad state, ebbing back the resentful stings that proliferated by the moment.
When the living room had nearly cleared of the bog, she slipped into the kitchen, directly to the stove. A sixth sense directed her through her lingering wheeze to a small pot, perhaps able to hold no more than a pint. It looked deceivingly innocent as it housed the charred remains of something beyond recognition, nestled over a flickering blue flame. She found the knob, twisting away the miniscule blaze. A brief moment passed and her tire had finally inched out of her; she opened the back door and knocked on the wall, stirring the dogs which would bring forth her aunt from slumber.
Together, they completed the task of airing out the greater part of the trailer. None to little of the cloying smoke had edged into her aunt or cousin’s rooms. They had been safe, for the most part, but a frightening clear refrain at the back of her mind told her that they too would’ve succumb eventually. Or mayhap they would have woken to find her suffocated on that damned couch. Alone and piped full of ribbon… She laughed, thoughts fuzzy and thick as cotton, and found the smooth exterior of her cell phone against her palm.

~

So. Last night, I kicked Death in the ass and spat down his throat.
True story. Yeah.



Question of the Day: Ever felt an urgent need to tell your loved ones just how much you love them?