It started a few days ago...

Stop. Listen to your breath.

In and out. In and out. Ad infinitum, if you had your way.

Let each breath stoke your memory, light your path from home to here.

There had been pain. Not a lot at first, just a pulse through the small of your back. You didn't complain. You were never that kind of guy. You thought it would go away after awhile, maybe you just slept on it funny. But then a few days passed, and the pain hit a point where if you HAD slept on it funny it would have been less “ha-ha” funny and more “spiked rebar slapping your spine” funny.

You'd seen the doctor, eventually. Seven days into the pain and two into missing work because of it, and finally you'd admitted to yourself that this wasn't going away. You tried to be as descriptive as you could about how intense the stabbing sensation in your back was, but when the tests all came back negative it was clear that the doctor thought you just wanted to pop a bottle of funtime eggs.

Keep listening. The light grows stronger with each breath.

So you left with your sarcastic prescription for ibuprophen and the metric ton of pain pressing up against your skin. It felt like your spine was trying to take leave from your body, and if it meant an end to the you might have given it permission.

Friends and family went from concerned to skeptical to concerned again, though for a few it was just for your mental health. It had been over two weeks now, the pain having become absolutely unbearable. Your back was clear of any visible distress, though every time you checked the mirror you expected something between discoloration and petrified flesh.

Focus only on the sound of your breath. It is the link to your past and present.

Everything came to a head on Tuesday. The rainy Tuesday, the one exactly one month since the first blip of discomfort had pinged on your radar. It woke you up in the early morning, the sensation of a cannon ball trying to exit your body. It is truly a testament to your iron will that you managed to stand long enough to grab your phone before the pain overcame you. From the floor you shakily dialed 911, but could not stay conscious long enough to hear them arrive.

Listen to your breath. You're caught up now.

The greed of the inhale, the relief of the ex.

Proof of your life.

Wait. Shit.

You're not breathing.