It's a horrible feeling.
I'm gasping and crying for air, even just a small breath, but my body is refusing to inhale. I'm stumbling down the aisle and trip, falling face first before a bystander catches me before I do, thankfully, and they gently lie me down on the cement floor.
I'm frantically trying to keep my train of thought, which was, until now, getting out of here and going back home. I'm in a survival instinct and it feels horrid. When you're having an asthma attack, all you think about is death. That's why my diagnosis is so bad - on top of defective lungs, it is also accompanied with a defective spine and ribs.
I hear voices, but I'm too much in panic mode to comprehend much around me. I do sense Marie and Robin are still here somewhere, and people are calling for help. I can't speak; I'm gasping for air and the only lights I register are the white stadium lights. I don't know if the game's over or at halftime, but I don't care. You really think I do? I was dragged out here against my will.
Suddenly, I'm about to black out. I can't fight anymore. My face is probably some nice shade of blue. However, I then sense someone pressing on my chest. Not an ambulance guy - I can tell by the strength and feel that it's a woman. From what else I can feel, finally finally - finally - I can sense oxygen being fed to me. A nebulizer? I don't know. It had to be something.
As it's being fed to me, stabilizing my body, I feel my body go limp, and everything goes black.
YOU ARE READING
St. Martin's Day (Second Draft)
General FictionSecond draft of "St. Martin's Day", previously under the prototype name "God, You Made The World All Wrong". Synopsis: Martin Scarborough, a hunchbacked man with asthma, travels the United States with the company of his beloved motorcycle, dubbed Ja...