I thought it was going to be old age.
Maybe I'd even step out in front of a car coming just too fast around the corner I crossed every day. I'd die in the ambulance on the way to the hospital several hours away.
But, no. Choking on toast was how I was dying.
I was too proud to spit it back up until it was too late. I thought I could handle it as an adult. But, each gasp for air made it wedge itself deeper into my throat I couldn't even claw at anymore.
I'd never been on the ground like this before. It's like every struggle for breath that tied the noose tighter around my neck also kicked out the strength in my legs.
I knew I was walking to the car for work. I'd left in a hurry, dumped down some food for the cat, and hurried out the door with a dried piece of toast to keep me going until I could run for my car parked in the lot a few blocks away.
I was on the home stretch when I bit down just a little too much of the dried toast. Then, I fought the stubborn chunk that rubbed my airways with its crumbling texture, until I was staggering to my knees and finally lying here on the filthy sidewalk caked in gum stains, dirt, and stale piss marks.
There was a cigarette butt in the grass just next to the path. Ants swirled around it to try and find something usable in the twisted stump.
I could still feel the toast in my throat. It was a part of it now, like a growth. It didn't even seem like something that was choking me.
Did anyone stop for me? Did they see me? I should have worn my brighter jumper I flipped past this morning. I chose out such a cute dark one with mushroom print on it that I was excited to show my friends at work.
Work. Would they be worried when I didn't turn up? Would they call me then try and call home anyway, knowing I lived alone?
Who did I put as my emergency contact so long ago? My Mum, Dad, or my recent ex?
He'd be so annoyed that I didn't eat properly. If I had just taken the few moments to slip out the butter or jam, maybe I wouldn't be on the ground right now?
Who would feed Pumpkin? My poor cat wasn't going to survive off one wet food can dropped on the floor. She'd be dead if no-one fed her. I didn't even know my neighbour's for them to check in.
I was going to feed her when I got home, but now.....
My tears rolled for how helpless she was. Not for myself, but for that fat, oblivious cat back at home that I was waiting to curl up in bed with like I had for the last four years.
Bed. That's where I wanted to stay. If only this ground was a little softer. It was already baked by the sun and warming all along the front of my body.
I should have stayed home. I should have said goodbye instead of rushing out the door. I always said it, but I was in too much of a rush to be on time.
I still had dishes in the sink. I hadn't called my Mum or Dad to check-in on them. The bed wasn't made. The car needed fuel. I was running late for work.
I should have just slowed down. I should have done more. I'm scared that I can't move. Everything is getting darker. The wind is bitting my back and I can feel an ant snaking up along my leg.
Each staggering breath became a long, slow, wheeze. It clicked in, swirled somewhere around the lump in my throat, then danced back out.
When it returned, it sagged to the back of my throat and burned there. Then, as frantic muddy shoes stamped out the blurred cigarette butt opposite me, it fell out onto the sidewalk to dissappear for good.
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