A different plane

Nothing but a shadowy figure, I begged her to slow down. Give me a chance. The venom of lactic acid tightened around my thighs, strangling their ability to breathe. It’s pure agony. Sweat drips profusely, mixing with the steady stream coming from my eyes. I can do better.

I’ve been watching her for a long time, or maybe it is more accurate to say she has been watching me. At the ripe age of five, I tumbled onto a thick slab of concrete and she was there, whispering in my ear to be more careful. The first time I got too drunk, she guided me to a toilet, letting me know that I am more than the snarls of peer pressure make me out to be. The first time the evil bitter-sweet powder shot up my nose, her watchful eyes tore into me, ripping apart my soul. She always knew the right path, but I had been too stupid to take it.

I took another breath and pushed even harder. She seemed closer now, maybe even reachable. I bit my lip hard, fighting the venom. A sweet rust flavour seeped onto my tongue, mixing with the briny taste of sweat and tears. Please, just stop.

She began to fade away when the cutting taste of liquor began to be sweet. When my nose began to bleed in the morning. When my phone stopped ringing, a letter from the dean gave me a final warning, and red papers were shoved in the crack of my door frame. I’m still here, she’d say. But you are running out of time.

With a final push, I sprinted. My legs wobbled and my head was full of air. But she stopped. I could make out her details—her legs healthy and full. Her face colourful and light. Her nose wasn’t crusted and her eyes weren’t bloodshot.

You look beautiful, I thought, as I looked in the mirror. Let me try again.