His throat was burning and his lungs were collapsing. It felt as if the breath was being forced out of his body, as if his upper torso was being pinched, squeezed, crushed between two giant, invisible fingers.
Nearly there now. Nearly there.
He was almost at the top of the hill, close to the cottage and close to the kitchen drawer where he had left his blue inhaler just three hours ago.
Got to make it. So close. Got to keep going.
There was nobody on the road this evening; nobody to see him suffering and nobody to help him. Few people made this journey at the best of times; only his neighbour and the postman ever had the need to struggle their way up the narrow, hedge-lined path to the pair of cottages at the summit. Besides, it was cold this evening; he could see thin tendrils of ice snaking through the muddy ditch between the hedge and the path, and white frost dusted the broken cobbles at the edge of the narrow road. Although the sky was clear, there were dark clouds moving in from the distance. Snow was on the way - and more than likely it would arrive before morning.
Stupid fool. Shouldn’t have come out without the inhaler. Should have known better. Too much on your mind. It’s your own fault… your own stupid fault.
Only they were watching him. Always watching; the hundreds of wispy shadows there on the periphery of his vision. He could sense them straining to reach him, could feel their frustration tingling like electricity in the air.
Why don’t you do something ? Why can’t you help me ? Just this once. I know you can.
His face was freezing and his arms were heavy. It felt as though he was scaling a mountain; his energy was draining and every step was becoming a struggle. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He felt himself gag and the smell of vomit suddenly overwhelmed his senses.
Is this what death tastes like ? Is this the way it happens ?
He could see his home now, one of a pair of small, fourteenth-century weaver's cottages standing alone on the brow of the hill. The curtains were open and the lights were on in the living room. They were his beacons, the only things left in the world upon which he could still focus.
Please don’t let this be it. Not now. Not yet. I’ll be a better person. I promise. I’ll do anything. Please don’t let me die. Not now. Not yet.
He struggled forwards, eyes straight ahead, lungs nearly empty. He was feeling faint, finding it difficult to move his legs. There were lights flashing before his eyes, tiny brown and silver speckles that distorted his vision and made his stomach lurch.
You’re going to die. Here on the hill, just a few steps away from your home. You’re going to die, Adams. You’re going to die and it’s your own stupid fault.
He reached the wrought iron front gate, pushed it open and collapsed onto the icy cold paving stones.
Nearly there now. Nearly there.
He thrust his hand into the pocket of his long, dark coat and fumbled for his keys.
Where are they ? For God’s sake, where are they ?
His fingers brushed over something smooth, round, familiar.
The stone.
He had kept it with him all of his life, one of the few possessions that he had chosen to retain from a distant and painful childhood. It had remained in a drawer in his bedroom for twelve years, covered in balls of fluff and dust until he had finally packed up his things to leave for University. He had found it then, and, fascinated by its perfect smoothness, had taken it to a Jewellers where they had linked it to a key-chain for him.
For some reason it felt warm beneath his fingers. He was still conscious enough to find that strange. He clasped his hand around it, feeling the heat rising up through his wrist and into his body. They must have felt it too, for he sensed them draw closer, like an audience leaning forwards for the final act.
It seemed to give him strength, to help him to find enough breath to pull himself up the door and fit the key into the lock. The door swung open and he collapsed into the room. The warmth flooded over him, into his chest and lungs and out through his body. His heart was pounding against the tiled floor.
Relax. Breathe. Got to keep going. Calm down. Nearly there now. Nearly near.
The front door opened directly into the living room and the fire was still burning low in the hearth. He could feel the heat on his face, his skin tingling as he crawled on his hands and knees across the room towards the archway that led to the kitchen.
You’re home now. Keep going. You can do it. Breathe. Relax. Keep going.
The kitchen was dark. He reached up for the drawer, his hand fumbling across the surface of the pine cupboards until he found a handle. He pulled hard and the drawer clattered to the floor beside him, the ringing of the stainless steel cutlery resonating in his ears like a hundred off-key tuning forks. The inhaler landed just within reach of his fingers. He grasped it and pushed it into his mouth, then pumped and gulped in as much as he could. One puff, then a second.
He felt exhaustion washing over him, could focus no longer.
Forgive me. Please forgive me.