Final

Breathe. Dear jesus, just breathe. He begs his lungs to operate. He begs his chest to rise, to fall. He begs his mouth to open, to gulp air. Finally, his body responds, a quick burst of fresh air and then it's like struggling all over.1

Breathe, he repeats in his mind, turning eyes filled with blood towards the large car that is ever so inconveinantly parked on his chest. Blood bubbles out his nostrils, though he barely notices it. He is too concerned with trying to breathe.2

"Damn," some voice from above says, almost too loudly for the concentrated quiet, "What did I hit?" he hears footsteps cruching in gravel, and then an intake of breath that is taking all his energy to keep going. Breathe, he tells himself, pulling in far too short a breath and exhaling more blood than air.3

"Jesus." a simple word. He hears someone fall to their knees.4

"Jesus. No." 5

Please, he thinks, I must get up now. He manages to turn his eyes, which are clearing (mostly on account of the tears now welling from his eyes, which he is unaware of) and he notices the car. He tries to say, "That most certainly does not belong there," but only manages a rasping, "Thh.." before starting to cough, which starts him choking.6

The gagging sounds alert whoever it is that is now choking on sobs themselves, who stops for a short moment to look up.7

"Oh, god." they say, and he hears someone getting from to their feet. A car door swings crazily in his periphreal. He hears the beeping of a cell phone.8

"I just hit a man. Oh my god. He's covered in blood. I'm on..." but he can't seem to hear them anymore. He is trying to stay conscious, but he's sure that there's no reason. There's a terrible throbbing ache just below his heart, but he's too busy trying to breathe.9

Jesus. Just breathe. This time it sputters out- almost a gurgle.10

He can hear someone getting sick in the bushes nearby.11

Just out for an evening walk. Just out to cool down for the day. Just out, like every other night.12

Just out before going home to his house to read, maybe to write.13

Breathe, he tells himself. Forceful and commanding with a strength he is sure his body does not possess. He wonders if he should try wiggling his toes. He counts to ten, and forces a breath, though he is no longer sure if air is coming in, because it seems to him as if there is only the taste of blood, and only the painful coughing now. Someone kneels down by his side, but he no longer has his eyes open. He struggles to open them, to look upon the face of his savior- no, his murderer? But can't muster it.14

He gathers his remaining strength, he is planning to say something. More blood bubbles from his nostrils as he pulls in a wheezing breath, and forces out, "I forgive you," in a rasping, wet, and dying voice.15

"No." he hears, this time recognizing the voice before he can't hear anymore. "No, please, darling, hold on," and it's at this moment, this pinacle in time, when he realizes it must be his truck he is stuck under. And it must be his wife who took the turn too fast- she had been going to buy ice cream.16

He stops counting. He stops telling himself to breathe.17