The Trapdoor

I stand here, on the trapdoor. Every detail alive and sparking. The feel of hemp on my neck, the shade of the sky. I suck in breath after cold breath. How sweet that is! How many more? Fifty? Thirty? Less?

Fear quickens it. Some part of me seems in a hurry to get as many breaths in as possible. All the ones I should have in my lifetime, in this little slice of time I have left. My heart is doing the same trick.

I could weep for the beauty of the chill dawn air on my skin. So many mornings I whiled away under the blankets when I could have had this.

My last moments spent kicking myself for a fool, then. Wasted on cheap wishes. Is it always this way?

If only...

What wouldn't I have given, what wouldn't I have paid, for more?

Someone shouts, "Stop!"

My head snaps (ha) round and I see them. Waving a piece of paper. The moment freezes all around me. Is this real? Hands remove the noose, walk me off the trapdoor. They have to hold me up because my bones have turned to jelly. Every part of me, inside and out, sags, quivers, liquefies. Disbelief. Relief. Maybe I'm already dying, and this is a fantasy concocted by my brain to protect me from reality. Or I'm already dead. How do we even know, when the time comes?

I'm led away still bound, and find myself in an official looking room, an expensive looking person across the shiny wooden desk eyeing me.

He tells me what I'd need to do, for more sweet lungfuls of chilly mornings, rich with blackbirds and patchwork skies. I find out what I'm not willing to give. After all, there's a chance I'm already dead, anyway.

He raises an eyebrow at me, arrogant in his certainty I'll cave to his demands to save my skin. Sure in his belief everyone is like himself, perhaps.

In that moment I feel only peace. Maybe, when I am stood on the trapdoor again I'll feel pants-wetting fear and terrible desperation... that instinctual longing for more of those precious breaths. I can only hope it'll be too late to be cowardly.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 8th March at 22.40

*Quick Author's Note*

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If you enjoyed this story, the best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another. I wrote another (super quick) story about hanging here. Cheery stuff!

A Year of Stories: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes a 68 day streak. You can find all of them in my Index post.

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