One minute

by hexacoto

The hand grasped my neck, and I could feel each individual finger intimately. I gurked out of reflex as I felt the grip tighten. It really hurts, and then it didn’t any more, but what remained was feeling of the tightening of a vice. It’s funny how you become so much more acutely aware of your senses when you are about to die.

I tried to breathe through the strangling grasp; a thread of air slipped in, creating a little wheeze and whinny as it went in. Our hands meet, as I tried to push the hand away as that other hand pushed itself against my throat. The heart feels fit to burst as it rapidly inflates and deflates, trying to send what little oxygen each pumping of blood contained around the body. The oddest sensation of bursting welled up in my chest; something wanted to come out. It was like my heart wanted to quit this suffocating body and burst straight out of the chest to take in a sharp, sweet breath. But no, ribs and flesh occluded it, and the offending grip blocked its only exit out.

I’ve always thought the dancing dots in front of eyes that I’ve read in books were a cliché, a myth. Right before me, indeed, were dots. The kind you get when you stand up too quickly when you’ve been squatting for too long. But instead of just flashing stars, they started to move. And they weren’t swirly things either, more like the kind of movement static makes on television. Messy, gussy, interpolation. The face feels kind of flushed. My arms felt itself beat. My legs flailed jerkily. I don’t