Breathe

In. Out. In. Out.

It’s so simple, isn’t it? The task that our life depends on. We think so little of it, but without it, we would die. Like a fish out of water, we would suffocate. I learned that. I am learning it, right now.

That so simple action, which filled our lungs with sweet nectar. That took in the precious oxygen and expelled the dangerous useless gases that hang around in our lungs, wasting space. I learned that too.

I’ve learned lots of things. Like French, German, algebra. Stuff that I won’t ever get to use. Stuff that I wouldn’t have used anyway. No matter how important the teacher insisted the subject was. Nothing captured my attention for long. My mother used to say that I had the attention span of a three-year-old. And then laugh.

But that was before she married Gary. Back when she used to laugh. Before she became serious. Boring. Uninteresting. Before she became a business man’s wife. An addition to the nice big house; the fast Porsche; the expansive gardens.

I was the only blemish in their perfect marriage. I refused to be another ornament on the mantelpiece, another trophy in the display cabinet. It thrilled me to defy Gary’s attempts to make me the perfect daughter. Each time he tried to tame me, subdue me, I took a step in the opposite direction. He claimed it was for my own good, but I saw right through him. He wanted control, to look good. He wanted to smother any independent thought, anything that made life exciting. No way was I going to end like my mother, a dried up husk. Empty, mindless, doing as she was told, nothing more.

I was forever being collected from the police station. Always breaking rules set by Gary, the school or the government. Sex, drugs and trouble. My motto. I’m surprised I haven’t been put in a juvenile detention centre, or whatever you call them, yet. It kills my mother a little, each time she sees me. I’m not surprised. She sees a drunken wreck of a seventeen-year-old, I see a brainwashed, uninteresting housewife. It kills me when she’s with Gary. But I should be happy for them. They love each other. But I’m jealous. Jealous of the attention Gary and the house receives. Jealous of the way my mother lovingly kneads Gary’s shoulders, when he comes home from work. Basically, I’m a green-eyed monster, screaming for attention. It selfish, but I don’t care. mum and Gary may need each other like they need air, but I don’t care. I need my mum more.

Air. So sweet, so necessary. When the weather’s hot, it’s like trying to breathe in a cushion. When it’s cold, it’s a knife stabbing you in the lungs the throat, the nose, the mouth. It carries delicate, lingering aromas, that bring back fleeting memories. It carries tangible, warning scents, which make you apprehensive. It carries powerful, screaming smells that make feel strong emotions. It enables you to cry with sadness, gasp with relief, laugh with joy. It allows you to whoop with elation, moan with desire, scream with frustration. We feed of it. We live aerobically.

I learnt that as well. In school. In Science. Just because I would rather draw in a notebook, than answer questions, doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention. I’m a woman. I can multitask.

Aerobic. It means with oxygen. Or long distance, if you’re thinking in terms of sport. Anaerobic is the opposite.

I’ve just sprinted a long distance. My limbs are shaking, and now I have tunnel vision. But the vision, is not because of the distance or the speed. It’s because of the hands around my throat, and the knee in my stomach.

All this went through my head in the time it took to strangle me.