I was trying to breathe. My throat was stiffening more and more. My chest was refusing to move.
“Breathe! Damn it, breathe!” My wife cried in desperation. She was sitting by my side holding my hand.
It was only because of her nearby that I kept fighting for breathing. My whole life had no meaning because of one unfixable part. What was the reason to live being a slave ready to be slaughtered by the law? I had always felt that way, implicitly trying to die earlier to end that shameful struggle. Recent events had proved I was right all my life.
“I’ll call an ambulance!” Shouted out my wife. She was scared, I could feel it even though I had almost lost consciousness. I tried to tell her do whatever she wants, but my throat stiffened the most. No air going in or out.
Several seconds passed, me not breathing. Then, the stiffening eased, air flowing in again. I coughed and started to breathe often. The next no-breath attack seemed on its way to me. I was afraid of it, not sure for what reason. I couldn’t tell whether I was afraid to die from that attack, or to live and struggle from being a cattle for slaughter for longer.
My wife was by my side. It felt warm and reassuring, a tiny light to fight for my life and my rights. Hopeless as it proved itself, she and my kids were worth it. Kate sitting here reminded of that with her mere presence. She gave hope. And also shame. I was ashamed that she saw all of that. All I wanted at the time was to crawl in a dark corner and die…
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