And so she lit a cigarette…. simply because she knew how this story ends.

She once again found herself contemplating what it is they possess that she did not.

In the long, exhaled third drag of the death between her fingers, she finally found it.


Her life had been a series of mistimed adventures.

She saved a turtle and ran late. The radio played a lovely little remix.

A different path and a love not lost.

A long last drag. She knew how this story ends. The way all her stories end.



The suppression of the respiratory system has a funny effect on the psyche. A simple act containing the power to anchor reality and slow the passage of time. The sweetness of this altered state can be found on many paths. The smell of home, the soft touch of one desired but not taken, and perhaps, slipping into unconsciousness like a warm blanket of relaxation.

A distinct set of feelings accompany that moment of slipping under the surface. The walking of that line can either be fought against or accepted. A lifetime of asthma had taught her to not fight the impending fall, it simply forces the body to panic. The greater the struggle, the greater the force that holds your breath.

Only once did she fight her way into the darkness. It wasn’t the pain that lingered in her memories. It wasn’t the hands around her neck, the proceeding strikes, or even the weight on her chest emphasizing the futility of a struggle to escape. She remembered the feeling of drowning. Sinking sings such a sweet song.

Just let go, it whispers. They all disappear in the end.

But she persisted. She fought her way out of the darkness.

One breath at a time.