DAY THREE

There was wheezing when I woke up today.

I scanned our haphazard camp for the source, there. Across the camp, behind the campfire.

Abby.

Sitting half upright in her bed roll, she was wheezing, rummaging through her bag.

I watched as she fumbled for her inhaler, failing to get air into her lungs. I didn’t move.

She lifted her head slightly, her eyes met with mine.

She wheezed out a singular word.

“He- help,”

But I didn’t. I stayed still.

Didn’t lift a finger.

I told myself I couldn’t move, that it was the withdrawal.

But… maybe I thought she deserved it for killing Bradley.

Or maybe it was the drug withdrawal, preventing me from moving.

I hope that was it. I really do.

Because then it wouldn’t be my fault, right?

I couldn’t live with myself if I killed someone.

So I blamed the withdrawal. Said I couldn’t move.

That I froze in fear and panic. But I know it wasn’t that. I made a decision to leave her to die.

I watched her as she wheezed, choking on her final breaths, inhaler unable to help.

Watched as her body folded over, hand crumpling into a fist in the frosty grass.

I watched and didn’t do a thing.