TRACES SPRING 2016 - Page 50


“‘Packer? Packer!’

‘Babe, calm down, okay? I think we should just leave him alone for now.’

‘No! I’m not leaving! What if he wakes up and I’m not here?’

‘He won’t wake up if we keep forcing him. Let’s just step away for now.’

At that instant, my mother’s voice faded from my ears. I tried to call out, but there was something in my throat preventing me from doing so. I felt pathetic. Calling out for Mommy, really Pack? There’s something in my throat, squeezing my vocal chords. I couldn’t manage to screech out anything. I heard the sound of my Mom’s crocs step away from my side. I knew they were crocs from the light squeak the shoe made when she rubbed her toes against the front.

Whatever the thing was that I felt in my throat was itching at me now, consuming me. I began to punch my throat again, again, again. As hard as my muscles would allow me, I punched. Finally, a little thing started to crawl out. I could feel it’s legs moving up my esophagus and my jaw outstretched for it to make it’s exit. It looked slimy and the color of cold lips in the winter, and it laid on the floor of this endless darkness I was now consumed in. It looked up at me pathetically.

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By: Mahogany Martin