After accidentally summoning something not from this world, all you can think to ask is to breathe better. You’ve always had a breathing problem, and you want it gone. “Oh honey, That’s all?” she says, “you’re such a good soul, I can help with so much more. I’ll help, on the house, for you.”
She snaps her fingers. Your lungs disappear.
Grasping at your chest, you slump to the floor in an ear-buzzing haze of suffocation, jaw working fish-like, useless. Your chest burns. Your veins swell. Your blood rushes. Tinnitus roars in your ears. You grab the carpet and wonder why.
Your cells argue. Hypoxic, they scream in chemicals for help, flooding you with panic as they snatch each other bald for oxygen, suffering as rabbits in a blocked burrow. They die, first one by one, then in sticky, shriveled colonies.
You drool on the carpet. Your jaw doesn't work anymore. You don't work anymore. The lights are going off. You are broken. You will not be fixed. You hear the roaring of static and you see it, swimming before your retinas, every shade of black, and you wonder at the beatific smile of the Thing, and at the same time wonder how black can have sha
You don't have a breathing problem anymore.
