Check.
Relief.
Check.
Relief.
Check.
Relief.
Pause.
Don’t check.
Un-pause.
Sudden and devastating irony that one’s skin can crawl, yet none of their limbs work.
The only animated parts being my heart as it hammers against the rigid, perspiring cage that it so desperately tries to keep alive.
And my lungs, as they desperately gulp for air like they may never taste it again.
For who knows if oxygen exists in the darkness that lurks at the epicentre of the collision between fact and fiction.
Check.
Check again.