His chest rises and falls with every breath he takes.
He lays there motionless.
Paralyzed.
As if he is rooted to the ground.
With each breath the intensity and urgency to be freed becomes apparent. She notices.
She forces the grass to wrap around every inch of his body.
Pulling him closer to the center.
How does she know the ways to strangle someone without using her hands.
He struggles to break free but is left feeling a dense fog in his chest.
He is now gasping for air.
She becomes amused toward his defiance.
But she begins to worry.
She can still feel the warmth of his breath as it clashes with hers.
She sends the winds on him.
The wind's curiosity is aroused.
The harshness of the breeze and crispness of the air bites and pricks at his skin.
He turns pink with the intensity of each breath she releases.
The blue and the purple and the numbness of his being have never been so amplified.
Every inch crawls with frost.
His skin is no longer pink but a deep shade of red.
He is rigid.
Breathing in her breath he is left choking on death.
The winds know what's next.
The winds know everything.
They blow across the world without a birthplace, and no place to die.
They leave him trembling.
He comes still.
There is no more warmth clashing with the cold chill of her breath as she breathes slowly moving the mountains as he once did with his chest.