The Last Breath
A haunting reflection of life’s final moments — where chaos, fear, and human greed collide. As the narrator lies on the edge of death, they witness the frenzy of strangers fleeing, the weight of unanswered questions, and the cold touch of hands that take rather than comfort. Stripped of all possessions, they are left with nothing but the raw truth of solitude in their last breath.
8/25/20252 min read
The world fractured in an instant.
Sirens had not yet arrived, but the sound was already deafening: screams, hurried footsteps, the clatter of things abandoned mid-motion. A market bag burst open beside me, oranges rolling away like tiny suns, crushed beneath running feet. The air was thick — smoke, dust, the iron tang of blood threading through each breath.
I lay still, each inhale a struggle, my chest rising shallow against the weight pressing down. Around me, chaos swirled. People ran. They left behind whatever they carried, whatever they were doing, whoever they were with. In that moment, survival was all that mattered.
Their eyes betrayed them — wide, darting, soaked with suspicion. They glanced at one another like cornered animals. Some cried. Some shouted. None looked down at me for long.
“Why?” I thought, my lips parting though no sound escaped. “Why do you run?”
Were they afraid for me? Or of me? Or was it something deeper, more primitive — a fear of being forced to face how fragile we all are?
“Are you worried?” The words trembled inside my skull. But I didn’t know who I was asking. The strangers? My absent family? Or myself, as if my own answer could soothe me.
Then the touches came.
Hands, everywhere. Brushing, tugging, searching. They were not tender, not comforting. They came in waves, each one different. A rough palm scraped across my arm. Cold fingers probed my pockets. Jewelry was tugged at until it gave way. Warm hands — trembling, insistent — lingered against my skin, rifling for money, for anything worth taking.
I felt every texture: the callouses of laborers, the smooth grip of a child too young to understand shame, the impatient nails of someone desperate. Hands of every color, age, and shape — all pressing against me, not to save me, but to strip me.
The voices above me blurred into a dissonant hum, meaningless syllables woven with greed. Not one voice asked if I was in pain. Not one voice asked if I was alive.
And then, just as suddenly as they had swarmed, they were gone.
The footsteps faded, the murmur of the crowd dissolved into distance. What remained was silence — the kind of silence that roared in your ears, pressing down heavier than the noise that came before.
I lay in it, emptied.
No jewelry. No money. Nothing left clinging to me but the weight of my breath, shallow and fragile. For the first time, there was nothing between me and the truth.
I was still here. Alone.
This time, with nothing on me.