writing challenge: Jan 3, 2018
Prompt: What if your phobias are how you died in a past life?
My lungs toil for air that will not come. I desperately claw at my face, my throat, my chest- willing myself to carve a hole for precious air to enter. The few short minutes before I pass-out feel like hours. I choke, I kick, I am still.
I fear death by suffocation more than I fear the fire’s flame, the knife’s cut, or the gun’s bullet. I fear deep water’s traitorous waves, plastic’s unforgiving hold, and the rope’s unrelenting coils. I cannot help but feel that lack of air is how I will die- or perhaps it is how I have died in the past. My fear of loss is why I cherish every deep breath I take.