Even Fish Drown

Hello all!

So, like many people here, this is my first attempt at writing (though I have been an avid literotica reader for nearly a decade). This is going into a much larger story, and things that might seem random now are going to (or at least I'm hoping they will) grow more important to the themes of this and make sense.

I'd love to know if I'm on the right track. No erotica, just kinda an emotional purging.

Constructive criticism is HIGHLY desired (heh, desired, meow) ;P

Hope you enjoy!

I open the door.....

I open the door.....

I open the door.....

Fuck.

It might as well be to another world. I can feel the atmosphere change; subtle changes in the oxygen, nitrogen, and trace gas contents. At that moment, I wasn't wholly convinced there even was oxygen in the room. Not due to claustrophobia or the stress of the situation, but rather a smothering wave of unidentifiable, yet unmistakable air unique to hospital rooms. You pick up the vague stench of hospital as soon as you enter the building, however, it was especially pungent in the tiny ICU room. Hell, you can't even properly call it air. More like a brick wall of dense, stringent tasting gas.

How the actual fuck did we get here?

I mean, we drove here, yeah. I'm grief stricken, not stupid. Shit, pull yourself together. Did I use my legs to get to the room? Well, that theory pans out, how else would I fucking get here. Were there stairs? God my legs are jelly, I must have climbed up five flights. I'd confirm my theory by looking out a damn window, but the ICU doesn't waste its resources on the frivolous pursuit of false cheer. It's better that way really; imagine how silly hell would be with sky lights and potted plants.

At that moment, I'm gifted with the visual of Satan, cloven hoofs and all, trotting about a cubical forest with poor lighting; insisting that some flowers would brighten up the stifling room.

I can't breathe. Seems to be a lot of that going on though; company in the room definitely included. I decide to keep my complaints to myself as I listen to the sheets gasp for air.

Coughing, hacking.

God, my husband has nice hands. I ought to know, I'm currently choking the life out of them with my own. They're strong, a testament to how hard he works. I love that about him. I love every part of him, but especially his hands. My hands are stubby little sausage things, swollen up with retained water; a testament to how much fast food I've been eating over the past few days, and all the extra sodium that has brought to my diet.

Eyes are pretty and all, but I don't buy the windows to the soul bit. To me, hands have always told me more about a person than not. How they look, how they feel, what you do with them. Who you hold with them.

The sun is beating down. The backyard is in shambles as I go outside to check on the progress of our very own pond. Its above ground, and two tiered. I'm told it's that way so there will be a waterfall. The moving water will be beautiful and sound relaxing, while at the same time aerating the water for the Koi we will eventually have. It's amazing to me that someone who thinks of everything refuses to see the whole picture. I try not to think about that. The black lining is all around the wooden structure he put together. The frame he constructed is strong; I've always thought that he had mixed feelings about that. The black lining looks so dry, like it would feel awful to the touch. The white ash in various places seems to add to this perception, but it protects the wood frame from water damage. It's what holds the water, and makes the whole concept of a pond possible. He waves me over briskly, like he's shouting with his hands. He looks so damn excited, I run up to him, matching his enthusiasm. There, in his hands, he has a small little bird cradled. It has some feathers, but not so many that it looks like it's ready to fly

Fuck that coughing. It's scaring the shit out of me.

"Hey, let's get you something to drink. I have your hot chocolate here, some juice, coke or water. What'll it be?"

He's shaking as he looks at me. I had no idea he could ever be that small.

"Hurry up old man, you're not the only one who needs a drink."

I'm gifted with an over exaggerated eyeroll. God knows how much energy that took for him to accomplish.

"Coke."

It comes out a horse whisper. He goes to talk more but I quickly put the straw to his lips. It's so hard for him to talk. I'm desperate to talk to him, but even now I can't; it'd hurt him too much. Same line, different context here.

God, I got fucking robbed.