Breath

You’ve touched his lips before, but not like this. The tips of your fingers are moist with saliva and move nervously over the slit of his mouth, as if reading braille, desperately trying to find the word breath.

Did he forget you were coming over? Or did he remember and choose tonight to do this anyway? Which is worse?

His dead weight is too much for you to lift, so you sit beside his crumpled body in front of the toilet. Had he changed his mind and was on his way to eject the pills when he collapsed?

The speakerphone of your cell rings.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s a man. 39. He’s unconscious. Overdose.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Barely.”

He should vomit. “Should I make him puke?”

“No, ma’am. Do not do that. He might choke. Where are you located?”

Your brain, on autopilot, regurgitates the address.

“We’re dispatching someone now. Try to remain calm.”

Your digits coil into a fist, then fan out. Shaking the joints loose, you reposition and steady yourself, put his head against your calf, and touch his throat trying to differentiate between his pulse and yours.

The smell of urine and disinfectant combine with the vivid lights jutting off the porcelain which consumes everything. The overstimulation creates more panic, so you stroke his hair and try to find comfort in it.

“Stay alive. Please.”

The heat kicks on and the jarring noise pulls a scream from your throat that echoes off the walls and through the ceiling into the first floor, a homing beacon searching for a roommate you know isn’t there. You forget the 911 operator is listening.

“Ma’am? Are you okay? Ma’am?” Her words are on repeat and eventually connect to the jumbled synapses of your brain.

“Yes.”

“Where in the home are you located?”

In hell. “In the basement.”

“Is the house unlocked?”

“It will be.”

The idea of moving away from him sends a flutter of migraines to your temples. What if he died in the moments you're gone? Would this be the last time you saw him breathing? You study his face, trying to memorize it, but it’s become foreign as his skin is sunken and pale. With shaky arms, you lean over and kiss his forehead, “I’m coming right back,” then tenderly lay his cheek to the tile as you stand.

Racing past his bedroom, you stumble when you notice the cat tucked away on his pillow. She didn’t need to see this. Your arm extends to slam the door while the rest of you repositions to sprint to the front entrance.

The first stair seems to dissolve as your foot misses it. The miscalculation flings you forward and your chest and left wrist collide with the wooden steps. The sound of a bone-cracking impregnates the stairwell but is lost on you as your lungs deflate. Your functioning hand slides along the wood, searching for your missing breath and stability.

There it is. Inhale.

Your chest refills in a swift, sucking act and your movements become exact, even while cradling your now broken wrist against your chest.

At the top of the stairs, you leave the door open wide and turn, almost running. The impact your feet make imitates thunder, pounding down each step, nearly losing your balance in the descent.

Please be alive.

The cold of the tiles chills your hands enough that when you press them against his lips, they feel warm.

It’s moments for the ambulance; though each minute congeals into years for you. Memories flash in between his unconscious state and your dissociated reality. Every stupid pun, laugh, unsolicited embrace, kiss on the cheek, tear, every moment you shared over the last three years kaleidoscopes into this frozen point in time.

The 911 operator’s voice is still there, but melts into static, mangles in with the pounding of your heart, the hum of the lights, and the slow, repetitive breath that slips from his lungs, over his tongue, and onto you.

The shallow movements reverberate through each molecule and mold into a trauma-induced form of synesthesia. When your skin cools, signaling he’s still alive, your follicles sing; the pauses in between hold the tone of a flatlining heart monitor.

Then everything skips, like a blip on a film reel; one moment you’re on the floor, pacing your breath with his, and the next you’re propped up against the wall, watching the paramedics’ hands move over him, a form of modern-day witchcraft.

Time fragments again and you're at the hospital.

Did you free the cat? You think back, see yourself open the door, and remember her sleeping on the bed.

In the emergency care room, the pings from the machines are a make-shift metronome setting the pace for music only the earth can sense.

Everything is soppy with an invisible fog. Someone is talking through it. The words are disjointed, but you recognize the message is for you.

The lights crystallize and the world snaps into focus. Slowly, and with great effort, you parrot the young doctor’s words back to her, “He's going to live.”

As these syllables take shape, your mind gives your body permission to exist once more, and the pain from your broken bone erupts.

Time passes, and soon his ex-girlfriend is in the room with you.

You don’t remember calling, but you must have. She didn’t look like her pictures. Same eyes and hair, but there’s a knowing expression that rests deep in her features no camera can capture. You’re meeting her for the first time, yet seeing her in this sterile environment invokes deja vu.

She’s been here before; perhaps the same room; with him like this. She recognizes your look like one she’s worn, where everything is off-kilter, and hugs you without asking.

She smells of cigarettes and red wine. Her tiny stature is frail, but you squeeze firmly just the same, ignoring the pain in your unmended wrist.

Her embrace breaks the last of the disconnection, and you remember how to cry.

The two of you take shifts over the next twenty-four hours, assuring he is never alone. During the day, your broken bone is tended to. In the night, you sleep in uneasy, rotating shifts. Near five in the morning, he regains consciousness. Time moves in a sluggish, silence. He points to cartoon expressions on a glossy index book held by a staff member which reflects the mental state he cannot speak to. His wrists remain in restraints.

When the sun sets, she goes out for another cigarette. During her absence, his breathing tubes are removed.

When the nurse leaves, you move to his side and lace your fingers through the waves of his hair. An exhausted smile shapes the corners of your lips, “It’s good to see you.”

Blinking, his eyes meet yours, pause, then retreat to the ceiling. His breath pulls deep into his lungs, and gently releases, “Likewise.”