Triangulation
My breath echoes, ricocheting and dodging my broken form, the exhalation finding its way into the atmosphere. My ears ring, a high-pitched hum, rattling and searing its way through my brain. I focus, try to hear something, anything else. Nothing but settling dust and empty, electrified air.
There's something else - a presence - gently touching my back. Concrete, smooth and industrial, reaching down, a constant reminder of its charity.
I'm folded into myself: my chin digs its way into my sternum; my hands still holding onto one another behind my head. Terror creeps in, removing the momentary relief that had been squatting in my brain. My brain urges me to move, pleading it to test my ankles and arms, joints and cartilage.
Tingling. My right shoulder. It's pinned up against more concrete. I'm being driven into the wall; the space is smaller, darker, unspeakably terrifying, strangely welcoming. Slower. Breathe slower. In out in out in out it goes, teasing my lungs, leaving them wanting more, always more.
It's saying something again. It's telling me to listen to my left shoulder. Too much pressure. A flash. Was it real? Help is coming. No. Help means voices, noises, drills and cranes and pneumatic cylinders cranking to life through gasoline and spark. Only silence sings.
Sudden emptiness. The pressure pushing me into the wall is replaced by a void of space. Or rather, the sense of space. Yet, my entire body wills itself closer to the concrete slab. Another flash. My knees. I can feel the grit of the sidewalk through my jeans. I'm pushing off of them, leveraging them to force myself closer to the wall. Easy. Relax. Breathe. Quit pushing. Start leaning. No more pressure.
I reach out into the oxygenated abyss; a foot in font of my head lies a craggy, unforgiving orgy of metal, wires, asphalt and concrete. To my left, eight inches of air resonate wildly from my shoulder to the concrete rough currently reminding my lumbar of its presence. Abusing my knees further, I slowly shuffling backwards for all of five inches: another barrier.
*******
To be continued next post...
There's something else - a presence - gently touching my back. Concrete, smooth and industrial, reaching down, a constant reminder of its charity.
I'm folded into myself: my chin digs its way into my sternum; my hands still holding onto one another behind my head. Terror creeps in, removing the momentary relief that had been squatting in my brain. My brain urges me to move, pleading it to test my ankles and arms, joints and cartilage.
Tingling. My right shoulder. It's pinned up against more concrete. I'm being driven into the wall; the space is smaller, darker, unspeakably terrifying, strangely welcoming. Slower. Breathe slower. In out in out in out it goes, teasing my lungs, leaving them wanting more, always more.
It's saying something again. It's telling me to listen to my left shoulder. Too much pressure. A flash. Was it real? Help is coming. No. Help means voices, noises, drills and cranes and pneumatic cylinders cranking to life through gasoline and spark. Only silence sings.
Sudden emptiness. The pressure pushing me into the wall is replaced by a void of space. Or rather, the sense of space. Yet, my entire body wills itself closer to the concrete slab. Another flash. My knees. I can feel the grit of the sidewalk through my jeans. I'm pushing off of them, leveraging them to force myself closer to the wall. Easy. Relax. Breathe. Quit pushing. Start leaning. No more pressure.
I reach out into the oxygenated abyss; a foot in font of my head lies a craggy, unforgiving orgy of metal, wires, asphalt and concrete. To my left, eight inches of air resonate wildly from my shoulder to the concrete rough currently reminding my lumbar of its presence. Abusing my knees further, I slowly shuffling backwards for all of five inches: another barrier.
*******
To be continued next post...
posted by The Haiku Review at 9:22 PM
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