Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The more air I force in, the less my body accepts. The more I try to hold on to reality, the more I slip into darkness.

Everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

You are fine.

I’m not fine. I’m dying. More specifically, I’m drowning. Or at least that’s what it feels like. Pleas have no place here. It’s too late. My body has already chosen revenge. Mutiny.

I can’t say I blame these failing organs of mine. I would probably hate me, too, after a year of being pumped full of house-party Jell-O shots, Adderall, and cotton-candy-flavored vape fumes. 

But, that senioritis revelry? It’s all in the past. Done. Finished. Finito. Eighteen years of living in this writhing tornado and I’m ready to atone. I don’t have a god I can pray to. I never believed. But I’ve always held out hope—hope that some mysterious entity would just appear out of thin air and absorb all my pain like a sponge. I don’t have much time left; so here is a message for anyone who can hear me—a telepath, a long-lost twin—anyone at all, please, heed my prayer:

Hello.

My name is Bliss Charity Wriggle. 

Yes, it’s a terrible name. 

If you knew my mother, you would understand—

But that’s not important now.

Now, all I ask is that you do me a favor. 

Please, help me live. 

I’m not asking you to save my life, just increase my chances.

Liken the odds.

Sweeten the pot.

I don’t think I have a life worth saving. 

In fact, I’ve done nothing of note in my life. 

I gave a woman the Heimlich once, well, tried, at least.

She did survive!

…After the first responder gave her a tracheotomy.

But I’d like to think I helped in some small way.

Look, I’m not about to grovel here. I’m going to make this plain and simple:

If anyone out there wants to save my life, I promise I will do your bidding. 

I’ll bring you breakfast in bed and rub your feet. I’ll iron your clothes and do your laundry.

I’ll give you your goddamned insulin shot!

Just, please, don’t have this be…it.

Sincerely,

Miss B. Wriggle.

P.S. If changing my name pleases you, I am absolutely okay with that. 

Tunnel vision is closing in on me, and, in a few seconds, all will fade to black. I can feel it now—the darkness—smothering me like a damp blanket. I can’t breathe—I can’t—

“Heeeuhhhhghhhh!”

The oxygen kickstarts my body like gasoline to an engine. Sparks ignite, pistons fire, and heat radiates from my chest. 

I’m alive.

My brain gives me the all-clear to open my eyes, but I stall for a few seconds to enjoy the sweet buoyancy of purgatory before crashing headfirst into another dead-end day in the dead-end life of Bliss Wriggle, Teenaged Failure of the Year.

Reluctantly returning to reality, I drowsily awake to the sight of my mother, Edie, vigilantly watching me from a blue, plastic chair in the corner of the room. Knees to her chin, Mom’s jade-green eyes flicker about the ruddy skin of her sun-kissed complexion as she studies my sleepy face.

“Hi, Mom…” I whisper hoarsely as I smile through the pain of a pounding headache.

“My angel!” Mom leaps out of the chair and grasps me so tight, she knocks the hospital bed down a notch, sending us down toward the peach, laminate tile with a loud thud. Irked by the suffocating display of affection, I try to squirm my way out of her vice-like embrace, but severely underestimate the strength of a mother’s loving arms.

Sensing my rigidity and discomfort, Mom gently releases me from her grasp and retreats to a spot at the foot of the bed. “I’m just so happy you’re okay,” she declares with a downward glance, sheepishly pushing a tendril of frizzy, flaxen hair behind her ears.

As we sit in tense silence, a tingling, inexplicable rage boils deep in my gut, and hot blood splashes across my face like a droplet of cherry-red ink on parchment. I turn my eyes away from Mom’s loving gaze and catch my reflection in a particularly well-polished, stainless steel catheter tray. 

Bliss Wriggle, Best Smile.

Peering into the gaunt, pallid image, I remember the girl in my junior yearbook photo—so bright, bubbly, and full of hope. Bliss Wriggle, Winner of Best Smile, the 1000-watt grin classmates would crack jokes just to get a glimpse of. Until now, all 32 of my pearly whites—canines, incisors, even my heavily impacted wisdoms—each and every one of those porous, knobby bones was a miracle. When the space under my eyes sunk into cavernous troughs, I clung to them. When my cherubic cheeks dissolved into sharp, pallid precipices, I clung to them. When my gold-flecked, red-clay eyes lost their soulful, earthy richness—suffocated under webs of anxious, bloody veins—I clung to them. And now, observing this skeletal wraith staring at me through the steely catheter-tray portal, I want nothing more than to stretch the taught, cracking skin of my lips and free those 32 little miracles. Raising the corners of my mouth, a flash of familiar joy jolts my brain awake from its comatose slumber. Brandishing the beginnings of a smirk, I curiously study the details of my hospital bedroom, the glossy tile floor, freshly mopped and sanitized, the steely legs of Mom’s chair, the fake Monstera plant perched in the corner of the room, and the broad, sweeping strokes of lilac wallpaper—an unexpected surprise, given the hospital’s decisively brutalist architecture.

…Knock!

Mom and I flinch. 

“Permission to enter,” a dry, monotone voice calls out from behind the door.

Struck by the visitor’s strange, serious tone, Mom giggles, “Permission granted,” as she covers her mouth to hold back the laughter.

The door gently creaks open and the air instantly fills with strange electricity that zaps the flesh of my forearms with tingling patches of tiny goosebumps. Suddenly on edge, my eyes dart across the room to catch a glimpse of the unnatural anomaly setting off sirens in my nervous system. Held captive by my petrifying curiosity, I sit perfectly still as a thin, pale being—just a few inches taller than my five-foot-six frame—gracefully floats into the room. Moon-faced with creamy, white skin, the entity’s straight, statuesque posture reminds me of the antique porcelain dolls that line the top of Grandma Wriggle’s curio cabinet. Like a fallen petal skimming the surface of a tranquil pond, he gracefully glides along the peach-colored tile, almost as if he were levitating. Gazing up at him from my bedside, I stare at the unearthly creature in awe, as if examining an alien species. His neck, his ears, even his fingernails, seem to glitter with a luminous, ethereal aura. But, his eyes—his sparkling, feline eyes—blaze with a strange, intoxicating fire that leaves me on the cusp of breathlessness.

“Bliss Wriggle.” The angel explores my frenzied expression with a cool, calm smile. “I have been sent to check if you are well. Are you well?” 

The creature’s silky smooth voice coats my ears like a sweet slick of honey. Disarmed, I collect my wits and respond to his question with a drowsy, dumbfounded nod.

Pushing shiny, shoulder-length strands of silver hair behind his slightly pointed, elf-like ears, the nurse flashes a coy smirk as he moves on to the next question. “Are you breathing normally?”

Clinging to each shallow breath, I force another nod.

“Are you feeling warm?”

Flush with heat from toes to forehead, I warily shake my head, hoping the nurse won’t notice the newly formed blotches of pink on my skin.

“Can you speak?” He teases with a sarcastic snicker. 

“Y-y-ahem—yes!” I nervously stammer between voice-cracking coughs.

“Satisfactory.” Gliding his dainty fingers into the front pocket of his turquoise scrub shirt, the nurse pulls out a small, black penlight and briskly clicks the tip. “Now,” he declares, leaning in just inches from my face, “Follow the light.” Transfixed, I watch the beams bounce off the jagged, opaline craters in the being’s crystalline irises. “Not me,” he interjects, curtly lowering the flashlight. “Follow the light.”

Humiliated to the core, I hastily move my attention to the tiny, glowing dot in my periphery and follow it as it waves up and down, then side to side.

“Your response is sufficient,” the nurse announces with another click of his penlight. “There is one final task…” 

Slowly erecting his slender back, the entity quietly turns from the steel bed frame and languidly drifts out of the room like a ship put out to sea. After only a few seconds, he returns carrying a small carafe of orange juice in the crook of his pillowy palm.

“Please consume this mixture of essential vitamins and minerals dissolved in a bath of artificial, citrus-flavored liquid. It is essential for your health.”

Crouching down, the nurse carefully unfolds my clammy fingers and places the carafe in my hands. Face red as crimson ribbon, I gaze longingly at his lean, supple arms as they rise from my body and gracefully retract to his side. 

“Ahem.” The nurse clears his throat, breaking my trance. “I must verify you have consumed the liquid prior to exiting the room.” 

I quickly gather my wits and drink down the mixture. The concoction coats my tongue in a tangy, bitter film so disgusting, I almost reflexively fling the glass onto the nightstand—but in my haste, I miss the ledge entirely. 

The glass falls, and falls, and falls. The moment should last mere milliseconds, but it feels as though minutes have passed; long enough for me to question the strangeness of it all. When I finally blink, I open my eyes to find the glass, safe and sound, resting idly on the table, like nothing happened. 

“Did you see that?” I ask, raising an accusatory finger toward the glass. 

“See...what?” Mom cranes her head to get a better look at the nightstand.

“My glass…it fell…” Bewildered, I study the empty glass with wide, perplexed eyes.

“Honey, are you feeling okay? Let me go get you some water.”

Eyes fixed on the carafe, I watch Mom scurry out of the room in my blurred periphery and repeat my question to the willowy nurse: “How about you? Did you se—” Turning toward the door, my voice dwindles then disappears. The nurse has vanished.