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Fiction Short Story

by C. Connor

One Breath at a Time

A warm wind scattered puffy white clouds across a brilliant blue sky. Dad mentioned the possibility of thunderstorms. The mid-afternoon summer air felt moist and stormy, but the clouds appeared soft and non-threatening and I settled back into the porch swing. Exhaustion remained my constant companion. I told myself the humidity zapped my energy. As I reached a hand out for the book I was reading, a sharp pain lurched through my side and burned a track through my healing flesh. I froze and forced myself to breathe deep and slow.

Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

A heavy shadow fell over me.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Pain?"

I nodded. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. Breathing hurt, talking hurt, nodding was okay.

"Do you need meds?"

I nodded. Dignity prohibited me from acting out my desire to expel a blood-curdling scream and wail like a hungry baby. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. My jaw seized and I remained silent as I clenched my teeth. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. The golden sun bathed my aching body. For a second, the light appeared as a halo floating over my bare legs. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the soft cushions. My arm slumped, my face grimaced and I held my breath as the pain pulsated through my body. Breathe . . . it'll go soon, it can't last forever. I struggled with my mantra and forced my mind to vision a field of yellow flowers. Each flower I picked eased one throb of the pain. Breathe . . . it'll go soon.

"Sweetheart, I need your left hand."

He lifted my limp hand from my lap. The yellow flowers disappeared and reality flashed into my mind. I watched him open a silver packet and wipe a cotton swab over the cap of the small IV tube protruding from my wrist. He pressed the needlepoint of the syringe through the self-sealing rubber cap and pushed the plunger.

"Okay?"

I nodded. Breathe . . . it'll go soon. I searched my mind for the field of flowers. He sat down next to me and sighed. Within minutes, a warm glow streamed through my veins and filtered into my brain. My head felt dizzy and all the hurt vanished.

"Dad?"

"Yes sweetheart." His arm tightened around my shoulders and he planted a kiss on the top of my head.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetie."

I snuggled closer to the security of my dad's embrace. Despite the intense heat of the day, I felt cold. Goose pimples formed on my skin and I shivered. Dad tugged a thick quilt from the back of the swing and tucked it around me.

"Is it getting any better?"

"Yes, it is." Wrapped in a homemade quilt with my father's arm around me, I felt like a little girl again.

"Good."

My finger's traced the stitching of the fluffy blue cornflowers and smooth scarlet tulips that twined in a figure eight on the soft cotton quilt. "Daddy, what do you want for Father's Day?"

His chin moved against my head, "Two weeks ago I would have said . . . I want my daughter to come home safely. A week ago . . . I want my daughter to survive. Today . . . I want her to heal, no more pain."

"I am healing, Dad."

"I know you are. I just wish I could take away your pain."

I chuckled, "You did."

Dad's fingers twisted my hair, "I sure did."

"I'm sorry I worried you."

"Par for the course, sweetheart," He adjusted his hold on me, making us both more comfortable. "Father's worry, it's what we do."

"No matter how old their kids are?"

His voice wavered. "You're not so old. Besides, my eyes still see my baby daughter."

My tongue flicked over my lips. I wanted to tell him. I wanted so much for him to know his strength made me fight. The last image in my mind before everything went black was my dad painting at his easel. I smelled the oil paints, heard the brush strokes on the canvas, and saw his brow crease as he concentrated. I imagined him hearing I didn't pull through. I envisioned my boss, assisted by the Inspector, deliver the dreadful news to my unsuspecting father.

"Police Officer Louise Christianson did not survive surgery to repair damage to her abdomen caused by a close range gunshot. We are very sorry for your loss."

I may not be bulletproof but I survived. I struggled to produce a smile for my dad.

"You made it." He whispered. "Life will be good again."

My eyes closed as Dad sung softly, "Hush little baby don't you cry . . . Daddy's gonna sing you a lullaby . . ."

The porch swing rocked gently as Dad sung. The image of flying bullets, people scattering about, and blood seeping from my torso faded behind my droopy eyes. No guns, no pain. Nothing hurt me now. I felt safe and wanted to stay in the swing forever, but the voice in my head reminded me of my purpose. I needed to heal, pick myself up and get back on the streets.

Weakness overwhelmed me as I listened to Dad sing. The familiar childhood lullaby calmed my restlessness and I snuggled closer to the safety of my father's strong arms. I inhaled without pain, remembered life's good moments and fell fast asleep. My dreams lifted us to the pale blue sky and we floated through puffy white clouds.


About the Author
Cat has had an interesting year writing-wise, with several of her stories finding homes in various online and print magazines. She is currently trying to find a home for her novel. Cat is amazed at what she can accomplish when she doesn't feel like studying! She is not entirely sure what inspired this particular story. She's hardly ever sure where her inspiration comes from. Cat is halfway through her Private Investigator's license. She lives in New Zealand with her husband and children.