Breathe - by Monique Moate

I felt a tear run down my face, slow and cold. It trickled quietly down my cheek, to my chin, where it hung. It seemed to grip on with determination, as though struggling to keep from plunging to its unavoidable death. It held for a long time, frozen, before it’s presence irritated me. Shaking my head angrily, it lost hold and fell. I watched it break on the filthy street beneath us. I watched it for a long time. It was broken. And I no different.

I became aware of my pressured hands and knees, worn and bitter from supporting my weight for so long. Tired just like me. I shook my head again, the strain taking over. My head hurt. Why did it have to be this way? Noise, chanting, it was everywhere… People everywhere. Just hurt swelling up inside me. It all slept in the back of my mind, subdued by distractions but throbbing and aching all the same. I hated it, and it hated me. It wanted me to give in to it. It lived to see me slip. I squeezed my eyes to stop the tears, shaking my head. It would stop. It would stop.

“Just try to breathe.”

A frail hand was on my shoulder.

My eyes opened.

I waited, not sure what for.

I took my breath.

Choked and spluttering, my head tossed back. The grit took over instantly, dirty grime clinging to my throat, entering my body, suffocating me. I coughed and scratched at my throat in vain to remove the foulness but it didn’t work. It seeped through me like mud, thick, sticking to my organs. I was helpless. I realized it was everywhere, layering my arms, clouding my vision. I felt it in my hair, stuck to my scalp, in my ears and between my clenched fists. It was everywhere. I barely contained myself from screaming, but could not stop my hands from ripping at my hair. I couldn’t breathe!

I was helpless.

Then I felt myself give up.

My hands unclenched, sweaty. I rubbed them, but the dirt wouldn’t come off. My eyes dropped. The uneasy sucking of gases through gritted teeth slowed. It was a pitiless battle. Everyone knew that. A pitiless battle won by something that was everything and nothing all at once. I shut my eyes and curled up in my dirt and filth and pain.

“It’s not as easy as it may seem,” I managed, wiping dirty hair out of my dirty face with dirty hands. “I hate this.”

A green flower dangled before my eyes, held by a hand as frail as the one once upon my shoulder. I watched it waver gently, dancing before me, bright petals glowing. I watched it through eyes of suspicion, watched it dance for me.

I saw my hand reach for it, felt my eyes squint against it’s intensity. Green. It was the only colour I saw in a world which resembled midnight well. A world of darkness cloaking the hurt which lurked everywhere. My fingers barely gripped the tender stalk before I collapsed upon the footpath.

I wheezed and looked at the sign dangling above my head. I looked at the grey mist surrounding me, capturing me in its bubble. I looked at the cars glide past, humming to deaf ears. I looked at my flower.

“It’s dying,” I whispered.

The girl’s face I could not see when I looked up at her. She placed delicate hands behind her back and nodded.
“As are we.”


She looked down at me then. Her green eyes gleamed with unshed tears, but she was smiling. A tear ran down my face, and I let it hang.

Monique Moate