Sarah
I can't breathe.
The darkness swallows me whole, pressing against my skin and crawling into my lungs. My fingers shake as I pound on the door, my voice cracking.
"Matthew! Please, please open the door!"
No answer.
The tightness in my chest spreads, constricts. My lungs feel shrunken, incapable of drawing enough air. I sink to my knees, back against the door, trying to remember the breathing exercises my therapist taught me years ago.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
"Help," I try to call, but it comes out as a whisper.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness behind my eyelids is the same as the darkness of the basement. There's no escape from it.
"Matthew," I call again, but my voice breaks on his name.
"Matthew, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just—just let me out!"
My voice breaks on a sob. My knees buckle, but I catch myself, pressing my forehead against the door.
