There’s a piano sitting on my chest, and someone won’t stop playing it.
It hurts. It hurts a lot. The pressure alone is bad enough, but whoever is playing the piano keeps playing the same note again and again in an incessant rhythm. With each note, my chest flares up in a deeper pain, a burning pain. At first, I prayed that I wouldn’t burn alive. Now, I wish I would with all my heart. At least it would end my suffering.
Distantly, I feel something cool press against my lips and pour into my mouth. I swallow greedily, hoping that it might at least quench the terrible flames. But the liquid is rough as it rushes down my throat and it only serves to fuel the fire.
I try to cough it out, but I must be underwater because there’s no air. Yet how can I be underwater? Water kills flames, and surely no sane person would be playing a piano underwater.
But the piano player’s rhythm is slowing. The flaring pain that rises with each beat is growing distant, as if moving through water. Perhaps I am underwater, then.
As the flames slowly disappear and the piano rises from my chest, I confirm that this must be the case. And as the rhythm slows down to a complete stop, I let myself drift away in silent gratitude.
*Note: Here’s my second attempt at Flash Fiction, based on the following prompt from HubPages:
Use the following words in a story: water, rough, distant.
I’m not really sure how this happened. It kind of just… Did. It’s a bit dark if you understand the imagery, so be warned.
The inspiration came from pneumonia.
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