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Your name is ROXY LALONDE and you lay on your bed, coughing so hard it feels like your going to vomit because you don’t have any air left, and maybe your guts will come out, and there’s a horrible clicking with every spasm as if your ribs aren’t set right. And this is what you get for smoking so much, even though you’re asthmatic. But your brothers weren’t the only ones that had a penchant for irony, and you’ll take any quiet humor you can get. You don’t even smoke that often, not really, you never buy a pack of cigs. You only smoke when you drink. The thing is, the thing is that you are an alcoholic. 16 and alcoholic.
Better 16 and drunk than 16 and preggers. No baby has to deal with this trainwreck.
It feels like your throat is closing up. You once knew what the names of those parts were, like the way Dirk knows the names of his tools, you use to know what your body was made out of. Your eso-eso-esofallaflgus, and your broccolis. Something like that. You remember the diagrams, how they branched like trees, how you thought your lungs were little upside down trees. Trees that you killed and now are trying to kill you. Because, fuck, you can’t breath, you can’t breath, and your wheezing between each cough trying to get some roxygen in you.
Your body hardly even moves with each convolution, you are curled up so tight, muscles taunt. If only you could get to your inhaler, but that would require you to get up, and that’s the last thing you can do. You wont die, you’ll get through this. Tomorrow you’ll tell this story, make it look all inconsequential, because it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter to you, at least. But you could really use that inhaler right about now. And then you remember where you had it last, your last asthma attack. It doesn’t even matter if you could get up now, because it’s across town in Dirk’s car.
So you keep coughing. Hacking up phlegm and what you think is blood. The room is too dark to see to be sure, but it wouldn’t be the first time you tasted blood. And this wouldn’t be such torture if you just weren’t alone. Big house full of big empties. Through some strength, some inner strength you get your phone. It’s always right next to you anyways, but just grabbing it, just ripping your attention from anything that isn’t AIR is a herculean effort. Your vision is blurred with tears, not that it matters. You haven’t needed to look at your phone to text for a long time. The typos a tiny side effect worth the convenience.
A mass text that reads Wht ur cul kitties up 2, ta nigth. Wonk. Gotta have that wonk, if you didn’t have a wonk they’d probably worry, you don’t want them to worry, you just don’t want to be alone with the feeling of gagging on your own mucus. No one’s responding. Of course no ones responding they all have lives. They don’t go home and drink half a bottle of vodka in order to feel something. Or stop feeling things. You aren’t even sure which way it goes any more. You hardly think it matters anymore. You purposely don’t think about it anymore.
And fucking Christ on a bike you could go for a cigarette right now. Or a swig of some more booze. Maybe the burn will clear your lungs and not just your tongue. If you could just drink enough and pass out you wouldn’t have to feel this pain.
Smokers cough and asthma. Worst. Combination. 5eva.