by F. G. King
It Hurts To Breathe and other short fiction
By: F.G. King
*****
It hurts to breathe
The child stood with her violet eyes wide, and her velvet lips open to scream. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she could make no sound. She crouched on the stairwell watching her mother and father fight. They were angry; they were sad. She did not know why, but she quivered at the sound of their voices. It was late, and she was supposed to be in bed, but she had to know. This time, it was not like other fights, it was quiet, drawn-out, and sorrowfully subdued. When it was over, her father just said, “I’ll pick her up next week.” She crept back upstairs and pretended to be asleep, until her silent sobs exhausted her so completely that she succumbed to the comforting numbness of slumber.
The child sat at her desk, her auburn hair in a ponytail. She was listening to the teacher, until a tug on her hair sent a jolt of pain through her scalp. She turned her eyes to the boy behind her, holding back the tears that she knew would only make him try again. “Stop it,” she hissed at him between gritted teeth. The teacher said her name, and she turned back to the front. That weekend she was given detention for misbehaving in class.
The child stood looking up at the boy. It is a different boy. He is older than she is, and they are outside the theater. “Let’s go home now, ok?” she says, and he smiles slyly, and kisses her lips. Her cheeks flush, but in the dark night, it isn’t visible to anyone. They walk to his car. Halfway home he stops, and tells her to get in the back seat. She says she just wants to go home, but he won’t start the car. He starts to undress her, and she can’t stop him. She is lost in the feeling of it, heat, breath, guilt. She tells him to stop, more than once, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.
The child sits in her room with her father and mother standing next to one another for the first time in years. They are angry again. She can’t have a baby, they say; it isn’t good. She isn’t old enough, not responsible enough. Her father calls her, “Slut,” more than once. Her mother does not argue against him. They tell her that her child has to die, and she refuses. They yell at her, and at each other. Vaguely the girl smiles to herself while they are distracted, just happy that they are all together, the way a family is supposed to be. She covers her ears, and pretends that they are not angry, that she is not pregnant, and that everything is good.
The child is in the hospital, and the boy is there with her; he is also angry. Her mother and father would not come, so he brought her. He did not want the baby either; he does not have the money to pay for it. The girl does not care: he is the father, and he should be there. They look at the little boy in her arms, gurgling and content. Innocence and ignorance grace his little eyes, and it reflects in hers, from a time not too long ago.
The child is sitting in her bathtub, with tears running down her cheeks. The crib is in the other room, and it is empty. The baby was too small, “premature,” they said. There is a razor on the edge of the tub, with blood on it. There is blood in the water, coming from one wrist, but the cut is not deep. The girl cries wishing she was either brave enough to carry on with life, or at least brave enough to end it.
The child is standing in the front of a big room, with lights shining on her. All of her friends are there, her new ones, because she can’t talk to anyone from before. The president of the college is there, waiting, and when her name is called she walks forward and takes the ceremonial blank piece of paper, and the announcer says over the loudspeaker, “Bachelor of Mathematics,” and her mother can’t seem to stop taking pictures from the audience, but her father isn’t there. It doesn’t bother her; she hasn’t seen him in a long time.
The child is sitting in a dark room, looking at a computer screen. There are lots of numbers, and she smiles because she knows what they mean, and works through them. She can’t feel the numbers, and it is good. When she is done, she goes home to her small apartment. She reads a book, watches television, and skips dinner because she doesn’t feel that hungry. She goes to bed in a palace of emptiness, and she pretends she isn’t lonely.
The child is standing in a big room, with many people. A man is standing with her, talking; he is her boss, and he is glad she could come. She had been one of his most diligent employees, and she had earned the distinction. Her job was different now, with more people, and fewer numbers. She didn’t like it as much, but she made more money, and sometimes she was almost not lonely.
The child is sitting up in bed, crying silently. The man next to her is sleeping, and his heartbeat sounds like love to every inch of her body, but the moon shines through the window. The light falls on a picture next to the bed. He is in it, and there is a woman in it who is not her. She hurts inside, looking at that picture, wishing that she was that woman. Quietly she gets up to leave. As she is walking down the hall, a little girl peaks out of her room; the two look into each other’s eyes, and see the tears growing in the other. Anyone else would think that the girl is too young to understand, but the child feels the scar on her wrist, and she knows how the little girl hurts. She leaves knowing that she will come back, knowing that she isn’t brave enough to be alone. The next day she sits in a car across the street from the perfect house. She waits for the van to pull away with the children, and she glimpses the woman through the window for a moment. After the van is gone down the street she gets out of the car and goes to the house. The door is locked, but she knows where they hide the key. She walks quietly, keeping her breath even. Her heart pounds, even though no one is home and she knows it. She takes the picture next to the bed, and leaves, promising herself that she won’t come back.
The child is in a new place, far away, with new people, and a new job. It is a smaller place, and there are fewer people. She learns of quiet things and how still the world can be. When she is not working, she takes up painting, even though she doesn’t think she is very good. One day when she is outside painting, a man comes to her. He says he likes her art and wonders if he could come by to look at more of it again. She says yes.
The child is shaking, not sure if she should cry, or go back to sleep. He is in her bed, and this time, she feels like something should be wrong. She takes a mirror from beside the bed and looks at herself, older now, but still very young, still feeling very much like a child. She is afraid that it will go wrong again, but she can’t see how. She lies back down and goes to sleep.
The child is looking at an unfamiliar set of clothes, hidden away in her boyfriend’s closet. They are women’s clothes, and she feels like she deserves it. When he comes home, she lifts the clothes and with a trembling voice, asks her suspicion. He is shocked, and says no. They were for her, a gift for her birthday. Then she breaks down and tells him all of it, her parents, her child, and the man who cheated on his wife for her. She weeps, and buries her face in his shoulder, ready for the anger that she knew must come next. She waited for it, but it did not come. He did not spend that night at her house. He came back several days later, and brought her a box with a ring. He asked her to marry him, and she says, “No.” She said that she could not marry him because she hadn’t done anything for it. He kissed her, and her tears stopped. Then he asked her again, and she said, “Yes.”
The child sat outside on a set of metal bleachers. Her son was somewhere out on the field, playing ball. Her daughter was tugging on her sleeve, asking to play with her friends. Her husband stood beside her, shouting with everyone around them, his voice the only one that was strong enough to reach their son’s ears.
The child sat at her own daughter’s graduation, she was becoming an Officer in the Navy. It was a different ceremony than the one the child had, but she was just as
proud as her own mother, who could not come to her granddaughter’s graduation because she was sick. The child took pictures but she wasn’t allowed to clap until the last person had received their rank.
The child sat at her son’s reception ceremony. It was in the hospital, so that his grandmother could come down from her room for a while and see it. She was in a wheelchair, and could not stay long. Even though she is sick, everyone speaks with her, and she smiles, despite the tubes in her arm.
The child weeps in her husband’s arms, sorry to see her mother go. They had not been perfect, but she did not want to see her go. There was a funeral, but her daughter could not come; she was far away. Her son and his wife came, with their baby girl.
The child was weeping again, and this time her husband wept with her. Their baby girl was gone. They had not made it inside, the man who brought the news was still standing at their front door and the two of them were crumpled up in the doorway. They take days off from work to cry together.
The child is crying again, and she is holding her daughter. She is in a wheelchair, and has just returned home. She had not been killed, but she had lost a leg. The girl was glad to see her mother and father, and the three of them are all relieved that she is home, smiling, in spite of it all.
The child is at another wedding; her daughter is with the man who saved her life. They are all glad to have him as part of their family, and he dances with the girl, on her titanium and plastic leg. She wears a white dress, and he wears his uniform, decorated with insignia of heroism. Yet, he calls her, “the bravest person he has ever met.” The child smiles, glad that her daughter is brave, and realizing, that she must have been brave too.
The child and her husband are sitting in a hospital, and she is afraid. The rest of her family is on the way, and are hopeful to see her. She awaits them eagerly, because she knows that this will be the last time she sees them. She feels selfish, letting go so soon. The disease came too fast, and she had grown too frail. They tell one another that they still feel all the love that they can. When the rest of her family gets there, they ask how she feels, she says, “Sometimes it hurts to breathe, but other than that, I’m alright.” She and her husband had agreed not to tell them, yet how bad it was. She says goodbye when the time comes, but it is all too heavy, and they know. They leave understanding their mother’s wishes, and they all promise to come back again soon, not wanting to leave her for too long.
The child left them in her sleep, her breath gone in a whisper. They were not there to say good-bye, but they had all been sure to tell her before. They spoke softly, of times long ago, her husband, looked often at her picture next to the bed. She was smiling in it, because she had done that often during her life. He knew though, that sometimes it hurts to breathe.
