7. Clara
Clara
I dig through the few boxes in my room, hands fumbling. Please tell me I didn’t forget it.
Finally, at the bottom of the last box, my fingers close around the small, L-shaped tube.
I don’t usually need it anymore. I outgrew most of my childhood asthma years ago. But smoke is still a trigger.
Normally, it wouldn’t matter. Most people don’t smoke these days, not since DARE and those awful commercials with wheezing grandmas dragging oxygen tanks behind them. But apparently, no one told the leather-jacket alpha downstairs.
I check the expiration date, then place the inhaler to my lips and draw a deep breath. The elephant that had started sitting on my chest suddenly gets off. Cool air fills my lungs, and I nearly sob with relief.
I hate feeling like this. This helplessness. I basically ran away from them just to get up here.
Asthma has always been a sore spot. Either people assume I can’t do anything because of it, or they think I’m being dramatic for attention.
Or worse, they treat me like I’m breakable.
Like I should live wrapped in bubble wrap and tucked out of the way.
When I stopped needing the inhaler regularly in my mid-teens, I was so proud.
I don’t want to bring it back as a constant feature in my life.
Sti ll, I tuck it into my bedside drawer. I’ll use it if I have to. I’m not trying to die for the sake of pride. But I’ll be damned if I let some smug alpha see how much his actions affect me.
I think about trying to go back to sleep but it’s a lost cause.
Instead, I open the tall window overlooking the lake. Listening to the waves lap over the shore is its own form of lullaby, and the cool breeze still feels nice. It hasn’t yet picked up the arctic winds of winter.
I pull out a beautifully clean pad of paper and my favorite brand of pen and start writing. A soft breeze carries a masculine whisper I can't quite make out.
I strain to listen more closely, but it’s already gone.