My Wee Mate

1 - Ailsa Sinclair

Ailsa

I shoot up off the grassy ground, gasping for air, my throat burning and my chest heavy with weak exhaustion. The air won't come, as usual. I desperately claw at the wildflowers surrounding me like nature's pillow, waiting for my lungs to work properly as they shudder and constrict inside my body. They're weak. The organs that are supposed to function without issue seem to act up daily now.

Staring out at the scenery around me, I see the sun rising over the hill. I stare at the horizon with hope that the stabbing in my chest will ease. I give it time. I stare at the orange ball of light lifting over the rolling green hills, counting in my head until the air comes. It has to.

It always does, but I dread the day when it doesn't.

Finally, after a few agonizing minutes, the air rushes into me and I drag it in and out for a while, simply catching up as I replenish what my body desperately needs to survive. I relish the feeling of breath. When I can breathe, it's a blessing. I silently thank God that today isn't the day that I die.

I sit up, pushing my mass of stringy blonde hair from my face as my legs fold to prop me up. The sound of the creek nearby trickles calmly as birds chirp, flying between tree branches without a care in the world.

I've had difficulty breathing since I was a wee lass. I was never able to run and play as the other children did. Carefree and healthy, the normal children would act with not a thought or care of how their bodies worked, they had no need to worry about over-exerting themselves while they laughed in the breeze.

For me, fun was just being outside, but I have to be calm here. I have to be calm everywhere. Even when I am calm, I still struggle.

I have always envied those other children. They could do what I could not do, what I still cannot do.

I wrap my arms around my legs, drawing my knees up to my chest and resting my cheek as I play with the hem of my dress. The brook is alive with bugs this time of day. The little winged pests are always in a hurry to start the day.

The grass is bright enough to hurt your eyes. A light breeze constantly flowing through my long locks of blonde hair and the tallest of the wildflowers, each petal varying in color.

Remembering my smelling salts that often help with my breath attacks, I pull the thin vile from my corset, the little container tucked between my breasts for safe keeping. I unplug the little brown cork from the glass. Hovering my nose lightly over the opening, I take a deep breath in through the nostrils, letting the stinging peppermint float through my body as it sizzles every part of me back to life.

Although the smelling salts help me slightly, they don't take the feeling away completely. Nothing ever does. That's not to mention the fear. Oh, the fear. The panic that erupts when I feel as if I've been drug under water and my lungs begin to feel heavy, like they've been filled with stones.

I press the palm of my hand to my chest as I try to picture the air rushing in and out, in and out. Mentally picturing it helps somewhat, and after a bit of the calming exercise, I can breathe normally once more. Well, as normal as I can.

Relief floods me as I finally can stand and travel back to the castle. The rolling green hills of the highlands call to me, but being out here can be dangerous.

It's not safe to be alone, at least for me. To be alone with my condition could be fatal. I wish it wasn't so, but that is how I was born, destined to suffer what God has cursed me with.

I hate my illness. I think of how much I despise it as I clutch my hand around my vial of salt until my fingertips turn white. I tuck the container back into my dress. The thing is so small, so insignificant, but a huge reminder of how weak I really am.