Just Breathe

[CW: Cancer, character death]

One. You stand with your fingers twisted into as many knots as your stomach, knuckles white and hands trembling. The microphone before you isn’t on, but even without its assistance, you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of the theatre could hear your heartbeat. The thick velvet curtain is something of a comfort to you; a wall that removes the expectant faces from your sight. You only wish it could remove the chatter that is starting to die down as the lights begin to fade. You close your eyes, take a deep breath. Breathe out. You allow vacancy to occupy your mind. Then you open your eyes again, focusing clearly on the barrier before you. It begins to rise, tentatively, as though allowing you to test the waters. You steel yourself, and then your comfort is gone. A brilliant light glimmers dizzyingly down at you, winking its encouragement and simultaneously laying you bare. There is a click, and now every sound you make will be transmitted to the world. You blink a few times, wait a heartbeat or two, and then music swells. The same chords you’ve listened to a hundred thousand times, the same chords that tonight seem to signal something greater than yourself within you. Your cue comes, and you open your mouth.

Your voice soars, an eagle riding the wind, a falcon in the dive. You cannot see the faces of those before you, but that suddenly means nothing to you. You are a breeze through the prairie grass, a stream winding through a forest. You are dandelion puffs and wishes and blue summer skies and childhood, innocence and pine and the freshly baked bread your grandmother used to make every Saturday. You are honey gold and crimson fire, green as sea glass and black as night. You are dancing in every note, laughing and crying and shouting. The world is mute, but you are its voice.

And suddenly, it’s over. Silence rings through the auditorium. You find yourself saying ‘thank you’, and suddenly the world has revived. Applause follows you like thunder as the curtain falls.

Two. The smell of coffee clings to your clothes as you mix and pour and deliver. You sing along softly to the song playing in the shop, pausing intermittently to call out names. The few people in line are dead on their feet, staring vacantly at the menu or their phone. Most of them have dark circles under their eyes. Nine p.m. is an unusual time to be getting coffee, but it is a Monday, so you suppose it’s excusable. “Bridget,” you call, and a middle-aged woman in a business suit steps forward to take the black coffee from your hands.

“You have a lovely voice,” she whispers, and then she turns and leaves the shop. You stand staring after her for a moment in stunned silence. You hadn’t realized you were singing loudly enough for others to hear.

Three. The stain on the tile before you is reluctantly relinquishing its hold beneath your washcloth. Your favourite song is blasting from your old iPod’s speakers, and out of habit, you’re singing the harmony. Right as you hit the best part of the song, you’re suddenly caught up in a coughing fit. Once it has passed, you pause for a moment, winded. You look up out the window and glare at the snow. You’ve never made it a single winter without catching a cold, and it seems this one is no different. You turn back to your work. With any luck, the cold will pass on its own.

Four. You narrow your eyes at the recently raised price of your favourite jeans. $99.99. That’s easily the largest price change you’ve seen for these before. You turn and walk away, in pursuit of something you can spend a little less on. You’ve barely taken two steps before you spiral into another coughing fit. You ball your hands into fists in the fabric of your sweater and keep moving, shooting an indignant glare over your shoulder at the price tag of those jeans. You never did like nines.

Five. Stairs are a challenge. This cold is persistent; it’s been clinging to you for the last several months, and shows no sign of waning. If anything, it’s getting worse. You wonder if perhaps you’re overworking yourself. All you know is that you desperately miss singing. Your throat is always sore and your voice is hoarse and croaky even just when you’re speaking. Your chest is tight all the time now, and your cough is worse than ever. Maybe your childhood asthma is returning. You promise yourself that you’ll go to the gym more once this illness has passed.

Six. You collapsed in the back room at work during break. Your coworker found you five minutes later, and now you lie on the cot struggling to breathe. Your coworker brought you the coffee that’s sitting on the table beside your cot and is now watching you warily, leaning back against the wall with their arms folded.

“You’ve been sick for a while.” It’s not a question. You nod anyway. “Why do you keep coming to work? You’ll run yourself into the ground.”

You give a choked laugh. “Or in this case, crawl.” Another bout of coughing wracks your body. Your coworker waits until it subsides before speaking again.

“You really need to get that checked out.”

“It’s just a cold,” you protest. “It’ll go away on its own. I’m fine.” Your coworker raises their eyebrow, but says nothing. “I’m fine,” you repeat weakly, but at this point you’re not so sure.

Seven. The ink on the page that was just handed to you blurs in your vision. Your ears are ringing. Surely you must be mistaken. Surely the woman in the white coat didn’t just say those dreadful words. But here they are, reflected on this paper that has crunched up in your shaking hands. Lung cancer. Stage three. You see the doctor’s mouth moving, but you don’t hear the ‘I’m sorry’. Your head is swimming, and if you were struggling to breathe before, you’re suffocating now. A tear slips down your cheek without you actually having allowed it to, and a wrecked sob escapes your lips. You bury your face in your hands and weep as your entire world crashes down around you.

Eight. The tulips on your bedside table are taunting you. They remain vibrant and healthy while you wither away. Your sunken eyes rove over the cards lining your dresser. The messy crayon-covered papers take precedence over the sleek printed ones and have invaded the front of the table. Friends and relatives will visit intermittently to readjust your oxygen tank and make sure you’re still alive. They’ve never said the latter aloud, but you know that would be your reason. Your coughing is constant now, and you’ve lost the ability to speak almost entirely.

God, you miss singing.

Nine. You’re having trouble keeping your eyes open, but sleep has been harder to come by lately. You’re scared that the next time you close your eyes, they’ll never open again. You’ve slept some. Little. Less. Without the oxygen tank, you feel as though you’re breathing through cotton wool. Your bones ache and blood stains the tissues you use to catch your coughing fits. Your eyelids droop, and…

Ah.

This is different.

You’re being swallowed into the recesses of your mind, consciousness fading into a song. Your cracked lips part, and from them sound the first nine notes of that melody you sang onstage what feels like eons ago. Then your voice is cut short, and you’re enveloped in a frigid, painless dark.

You never did like nines.