takencarewhump

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I imagine you having a seizure while eating and choking would be a unique problem of trying to clear your airway while you are still seizing

that sounds like a fun RP prompt anon ☺️

Perhaps the first seizure isn’t even that big, I just lose awareness and my eyes start rolling as my hands twitch and I slump in my chair. This is almost normal for me, small seizures scattered throughout the day, they’re usually okay to deal with. You just gather my limp spasming body into your arms and hold me, making sure I’m safe. But I’m drooling and I start to gag and you realise with horror that I had been eating before I went into the little episode and when you check me I’m choking. You don’t know what to do so you recline the chair im in and try to open my mouth and manually clear any obstruction as I twitch weakly but once you can see the back of my throat you realise there’s something stuck and I’m turning blue.

You lift my limp weakly spasming body and get in a few good Heimlich thrusts before the oxygen deprivation is too much for my brain and the seizure generalises. I stiffen in your arms and groan and you are forced to get me to the ground as I begin to convulse violently, my airway still blocked as you look on in panic and try to figure out what to do.

[takencarewhump]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum Characters: Gladiolus Amicitia, Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Secondary Drowning, Hypothermia, Broken Bones, Exposure, Temporary Character Death Summary:

A gloved hand arrests Gladio’s fall, wrenching his shoulder out of its socket. There's blood in his eyes and his mouth, and in the swirling wail of the snowstorm he can just glimpse a furious scowl of Ignis' mouth, hears the slither of leather over ice - and they plummet over the edge.

[takencarewhump]

”Washed Ashore (2)” from RinKurou6 profile at DeviantArt

[takencarewhump]

Ersatz Emotion | Chapter 1

TW: Nudity. Bleeding. Implied stabbing. 

Out of all of the lousy jobs they could get as a mechatronic technician, Caretaker hated working for the police most. 

They’d always bring in cleaning bots with pieces of people inside, cooking bots that had cooked pieces of people or pet bots that were battered beyond belief but had still managed to chomp up pieces of a person. 

But above all, Caretaker hated when they brought in androids. 

Because, you see, at this point in time, you can’t know what’s an android and what’s a human until you’ve had a closer look. So at any given time, officers would barge inside dragging androids across the floor like you would a large trash bag, or on top of their shoulders like a hunting trophy. 

And it wasn’t that Caretaker was one of those android rights activists, but there was one fact: androids were marvelous pieces of human ingenuity and at least deserved to be treated with respect. 

Caretaker should have known this one would be different when the officer that brought them in was being careful for once. They brought it in like they would carry a sleeping person, in their arms, wrapped around in some old blanket. And as they set it on the counter, it even looked like one. It was definitely a top of the line model, with super advanced programming and delicate microstructures. The most realistic thing Caretaker had ever seen. 

“Must’ve cost a fortune.” Caretaker said, touching the soft skin of the face. It even had freckles. It was motionless and grey, lips and eyelids with a bluish tint. That was probably due to the deactivation of the energy core, that wasn’t sending signals to the fluid pump. Looked a lot like a corpse if you’d never seen a deactivated android before. 

“We wouldn’t know. The owner went missing.” The police officer was looking everywhere but the android. They clearly weren’t used to such realism. No one really was. This level was really new. The android being completely nude under the blanket didn’t help. 

“Do you know what’s the damage?” 

“No idea. It was already broken when we arrived at the apartment.” 

“Anything I should know about the owner?” 

“A rich type. Worked with those things, that’s why that one is so new.” The officer said, risking a look down at the android. They quickly looked away, shaking their head. 

Caretaker nodded. “I’ll take a look at it. When do you need it?” 

 “As soon as possible.” 

Of course. Of course it was. 

Keep reading

[takencarewhump]

Mikael’s job was to patrol the shore, after a storm. Hopefully, most people managed to steer clear of the rocks of the cove, or pilot well enough to avoid the swells, but inevitably debris washed up on shore. Debris, or worse.

He wrapped his coat tighter around him — the wind was brutal cold, and the water even colder, soaking at the edges of his pants despite his worn-out waxcloth boots. Hopefully, he’d find something he could trade for a new pair.

Sure enough, a cluster of driftwood was visible ahead, pushed onto the beach by the tide. Mikael tromped over though the wet sand. It looked like part of a ship, the wood was drenched but could be worth something, the big pieces at least. He picked through the remains of some rigging when he spotted a pale flash among the sodden wood — a limp hand.

Mikael swore and swung around towards the hand, following it to a shoulder, a chest, a whole crumpled body pressed into a crevice. He reached for the body, praying it was no one he recognized from the docks. The corpses sometimes had valuables on them, but it was grim and unpleasant work. It fell towards him easily, no stiffness in the limbs yet, and revealed an unknown face — mottled blue, but once handsome. It’s mouth was slightly agape, and the eyes open a crack, whites just visible. Mikael grimaced and lifted his hand to the face to close them. But as his hand passed over the mouth, he felt a small movement, the jaw pulling downwards.

“Fuck me,” he swore again, and lunged forward, putting his head on the man’s sodden chest. He couldn’t hear a heartbeat, but he could feel a slight movement, an uneven and unnatural jerking. Still, if he was moving, there may be a chance for him.

Mikael grabbed the man — not a body, for now at least — by the shoulders and dragged him free from the splintered wreckage, onto the freezing sand. He’d never tried to save a life before, never found one near enough to living to be saved, but he’d heard of the process. He placed one hand on the stranger’s chin and pulled down, opening it as much as possible, and grabbed his shoulder, turning him to the side. He went limply, and water spilled onto the sand, passively spilling from his throat. Mikael put his fist on his stomach and pushed inwards, fighting the resistance of heavy soaked wool, and a little more water came out, foamy and foul. He pushed him back over so he lay supine, positioned his hands on his chest, and pressed down.

The first press caused a spasm, the stranger jerking unnaturally as his chest bowed in. Mikael almost stopped — it looked like he’d caused pain. But, better injured than dead. He’d beg the stranger’s forgiveness if he ever awoke. He pressed down again, and again, with no result but the strange creaking of his body, and the ever-spreading mottled blue of his skin. Once the foam had slowed, he returned to the man’s mouth, pulling the chin down again and holding his in place tongue with his thumb. With his other hand, he plugged the man’s nose. The stranger’s lips were cold as ice, and stiff with it, a purple-blue he’d never seen on a living thing. The breath bowed his cheeks and seemed to go into his body, but perhaps not as much as it should’ve; he could hear a soft gurgling as the air hit the lungs. The air leaked from the man passively, and brought foam with it. He breathed into that cold mouth again, and returned to his grim work.

Another round of compressions, and something in the man’s chest seemed to snap. The work became easier, the chest collapsing inwards with less force. Each push brought forth small spurts of foam from the stranger’s mouth, and it even seemed to move on its own from time to time - yawning open uncannily. The man jerked, head snapping back, and Mikael startled, falling back on his heels before lunging forward to roll him onto his side. The stranger convulsed, vomiting seawater weakly, body twitching and trembling with the force of it. The throat worked and he vomited again, and Mikael pressed his ear in close, listening for a breath, a heartbeat, but there was nothing. An automatic reaction, perhaps, to the work Mikael was putting in. But still, he felt heartened. He may be fighting a battle, but this man, whatever was left, was fighting with him.

“C’mon, that’s it,” Mikael said, and breathed into his mouth again, pushing his breath forcefully into lungs that felt clearer, rose more evenly. “You’re a stubborn bastard, I bet.” His own breath was feeling a bit short, but for once he was glad of the cold — this was hard labor, but at least he wasn’t sweating. He pushed down on his chest again, and again.

The man convulsed twice more as Mikael worked, each time spewing forward more water, sometimes pulling his neck or contorting his arms as he did. Mikael was starting to feel his limit —the adrenaline had worn off, and each press sunk his knees deeper into the icy sand. If only he had help… He stopped, and fumbled for his belt. In the excitement, he had forgotten the emergency flare. He pulled the flare out and triggered the launching mechanism, caught his breath as he watched it arc into the air.

“You’ll be alright,” Mikael said, taking an instant to push the man’s sodden hair off his forehead. The eerie red light of the flare returned the living blush to his skin, if only temporarily. “Help is on the way.” He drew a deep breath, and forced it again into unwilling lungs.

Again, again, again, he plunged his hands downwards, until he heard the faint call of the rest of the patrol. “Over here!” He shouted, not ceasing the compressions. “Help me!”

The patrol cart couldn’t make it down far on the sand, but the emergency team climbed out of it and half slid, half ran down the dunes to reach them. Jos, who’d been an old man for as long as Mikael could remember, came up last, huffing and dragging a large and rusted metal box he’d never seen before.

“Well done,” Leine said, putting her hand on his shoulder and pulling him away from the man. She took over, driving down into him like a piston, and Mikael leaned back onto the sand, panting. His muscles burned and his breath came up short, but he kept his eyes peeled on the man, who didn’t seem to be responding to Leine’s work any more than he had Mikael’s.

“It’s ready,” Jos said, pulling the box forward, and removing from it some metal pads and wires. Leine pulled a knife from her back pocket and began cutting away the heavy knit from the man’s torso. Mikael sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the result of his work - the man’s chest was a bruised, broken wreck, white as bone except where the dark stain of a bruise was spreading.

“Stand back,” Jos said brusquely, and pressed the pads against the bare chest. “What—” Mikael started, but then there was a buzz of some kind of power, and the man spasmed, chest flexing upwards out of the sand like an invisible rope was yanking him skywards, like his muscles were clenching and propelling him at random. Jos removed the pads, and he collapsed, once again limp in the sand. Leine bent over him, tilting her head to listen over his mouth, his chest.

“His heart’s beating, but weak,” she said. Mikael scrambled back to his side and could see — the chest rising and falling, slowly, but regularly, as he drew in ragged sips of air.

“Did that start his heart?” Mikael asked. “Is he going to live?”

Jos and Leine shared a look. “Help us carry him to the cart,” Jos said, eventually. “We can get him warm, at least.”

[takencarewhump]

something I'm currently really hooked on fantasy wise is fluid on the lungs;

any fluid is great, for example a near drowning experience, but what I'm really hooked on is naturally occurring fluids that just seem to be endlessly supplied by a broken body, collecting in dying lungs, keeping my resusee from getting the air they need.

I want to feel them struggle, coughing and choking weakly, having to work their chest harder than they have the energy for, to get any substantial amount of air in, their lips turning blue and their saturation dropping anyway despite their efforts, getting to hear their helpless wheezing and the sick crackle of their lungs all the while.

then you get to have to shove fingers in their mouth to clear spit and fluid from their throat as they grow weaker and weaker, unable to fight their body any longer, maybe you cause them to gag, or in an attempt to help them, you block off their air long enough for them to flutter out of consciousness. maybe you get to suction them, shoving a tube down their throat to clear the fluid away, or press a stethoscope to their chest and hear their soppy, wet, lungs struggle to pull in air.

as they grow weaker, or maybe as they begin to code you have to support their airway, they're too weak to do it regardless, but the excess fluid makes it even harder. maybe you have to intubate or use an OPA, maybe you don't have access to those, so you have to do your damn best with your hands, holding their limp head steady, trying to lessen the obstruction between their mouth and lungs. you'll have to breathe for them past the fluid, hearing that gurgle all the while.

or they stay mostly conscious, but you have to press and oxygen mask to their face, assisting every now and then with your own breaths, maybe because they struggle to recover from a coughing fit, or because they simply can't pull enough in on their own. maybe they flutter in between conscious and unconscious, so you have to run their sternum harshly to keep them awake, causing them to whine and whimper against you.

it's just fucking hot, oml, there's just so many possibilities.

[takencarewhump]

so I finally got around to reading bram stoker's dracula (1897)

[takencarewhump]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Trigun Stampede (Anime 2023), Trigun (Anime & Manga 1995-2008) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Vash the Stampede/Nicholas D. Wolfwood Characters: Vash the Stampede (Trigun), Nicholas D. Wolfwood Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, vash gets whumped, temporary insanity, Temporary Character Death, vague use of vials, They’re In Love Your Honor, Plant power shenanigans, Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending Series: Part 28 of Trigun Trauma Summary:

The air was too warm for the covers, but it was pleasant enough, and, before long, Vash felt his eyes slip closed. Wolfwood’s breath was even, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and soothing, and Vash found himself slipping away into sleep.

Something was wrong.

Vash opened his eyes and began to sit up - and heard a gunshot.

[takencarewhump]

Vision of Escaflowne ep 11

[takencarewhump]

The laboured breathing of a character in distress- the tight, congested breathing of a character ill with a wretched cold or effortful crackling of pneumonia or a lung infection; raw, painful breaths after being deprived of air, fighting for breath past abused airways having been nearly drowned, or choked, or suffered smoke inhalation; gasping panting after some great exertion or effort; panicked, uneven breathing in the throes of fear or pain, shallow and hyperventilating; the reluctance and struggle when every breath aggravates an injury with even the slight movement of inhale and exhale; the telling change in breathing pattern of nightmare or feverish delirium- their irregular, effortful, laboured breaths putting the character's suffering on display.

[takencarewhump]

Mikael’s job was to patrol the shore, after a storm. Hopefully, most people managed to steer clear of the rocks of the cove, or pilot well enough to avoid the swells, but inevitably debris washed up on shore. Debris, or worse.

He wrapped his coat tighter around him — the wind was brutal cold, and the water even colder, soaking at the edges of his pants despite his worn-out waxcloth boots. Hopefully, he’d find something he could trade for a new pair.

Sure enough, a cluster of driftwood was visible ahead, pushed onto the beach by the tide. Mikael tromped over though the wet sand. It looked like part of a ship, the wood was drenched but could be worth something, the big pieces at least. He picked through the remains of some rigging when he spotted a pale flash among the sodden wood — a limp hand.

Mikael swore and swung around towards the hand, following it to a shoulder, a chest, a whole crumpled body pressed into a crevice. He reached for the body, praying it was no one he recognized from the docks. The corpses sometimes had valuables on them, but it was grim and unpleasant work. It fell towards him easily, no stiffness in the limbs yet, and revealed an unknown face — mottled blue, but once handsome. It’s mouth was slightly agape, and the eyes open a crack, whites just visible. Mikael grimaced and lifted his hand to the face to close them. But as his hand passed over the mouth, he felt a small movement, the jaw pulling downwards.

“Fuck me,” he swore again, and lunged forward, putting his head on the man’s sodden chest. He couldn’t hear a heartbeat, but he could feel a slight movement, an uneven and unnatural jerking. Still, if he was moving, there may be a chance for him.

Mikael grabbed the man — not a body, for now at least — by the shoulders and dragged him free from the splintered wreckage, onto the freezing sand. He’d never tried to save a life before, never found one near enough to living to be saved, but he’d heard of the process. He placed one hand on the stranger’s chin and pulled down, opening it as much as possible, and grabbed his shoulder, turning him to the side. He went limply, and water spilled onto the sand, passively spilling from his throat. Mikael put his fist on his stomach and pushed inwards, fighting the resistance of heavy soaked wool, and a little more water came out, foamy and foul. He pushed him back over so he lay supine, positioned his hands on his chest, and pressed down.

The first press caused a spasm, the stranger jerking unnaturally as his chest bowed in. Mikael almost stopped — it looked like he’d caused pain. But, better injured than dead. He’d beg the stranger’s forgiveness if he ever awoke. He pressed down again, and again, with no result but the strange creaking of his body, and the ever-spreading mottled blue of his skin. Once the foam had slowed, he returned to the man’s mouth, pulling the chin down again and holding his in place tongue with his thumb. With his other hand, he plugged the man’s nose. The stranger’s lips were cold as ice, and stiff with it, a purple-blue he’d never seen on a living thing. The breath bowed his cheeks and seemed to go into his body, but perhaps not as much as it should’ve; he could hear a soft gurgling as the air hit the lungs. The air leaked from the man passively, and brought foam with it. He breathed into that cold mouth again, and returned to his grim work.

Another round of compressions, and something in the man’s chest seemed to snap. The work became easier, the chest collapsing inwards with less force. Each push brought forth small spurts of foam from the stranger’s mouth, and it even seemed to move on its own from time to time - yawning open uncannily. The man jerked, head snapping back, and Mikael startled, falling back on his heels before lunging forward to roll him onto his side. The stranger convulsed, vomiting seawater weakly, body twitching and trembling with the force of it. The throat worked and he vomited again, and Mikael pressed his ear in close, listening for a breath, a heartbeat, but there was nothing. An automatic reaction, perhaps, to the work Mikael was putting in. But still, he felt heartened. He may be fighting a battle, but this man, whatever was left, was fighting with him.

“C’mon, that’s it,” Mikael said, and breathed into his mouth again, pushing his breath forcefully into lungs that felt clearer, rose more evenly. “You’re a stubborn bastard, I bet.” His own breath was feeling a bit short, but for once he was glad of the cold — this was hard labor, but at least he wasn’t sweating. He pushed down on his chest again, and again.

The man convulsed twice more as Mikael worked, each time spewing forward more water, sometimes pulling his neck or contorting his arms as he did. Mikael was starting to feel his limit —the adrenaline had worn off, and each press sunk his knees deeper into the icy sand. If only he had help… He stopped, and fumbled for his belt. In the excitement, he had forgotten the emergency flare. He pulled the flare out and triggered the launching mechanism, caught his breath as he watched it arc into the air.

“You’ll be alright,” Mikael said, taking an instant to push the man’s sodden hair off his forehead. The eerie red light of the flare returned the living blush to his skin, if only temporarily. “Help is on the way.” He drew a deep breath, and forced it again into unwilling lungs.

Again, again, again, he plunged his hands downwards, until he heard the faint call of the rest of the patrol. “Over here!” He shouted, not ceasing the compressions. “Help me!”

The patrol cart couldn’t make it down far on the sand, but the emergency team climbed out of it and half slid, half ran down the dunes to reach them. Jos, who’d been an old man for as long as Mikael could remember, came up last, huffing and dragging a large and rusted metal box he’d never seen before.

“Well done,” Leine said, putting her hand on his shoulder and pulling him away from the man. She took over, driving down into him like a piston, and Mikael leaned back onto the sand, panting. His muscles burned and his breath came up short, but he kept his eyes peeled on the man, who didn’t seem to be responding to Leine’s work any more than he had Mikael’s.

“It’s ready,” Jos said, pulling the box forward, and removing from it some metal pads and wires. Leine pulled a knife from her back pocket and began cutting away the heavy knit from the man’s torso. Mikael sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the result of his work - the man’s chest was a bruised, broken wreck, white as bone except where the dark stain of a bruise was spreading.

“Stand back,” Jos said brusquely, and pressed the pads against the bare chest. “What—” Mikael started, but then there was a buzz of some kind of power, and the man spasmed, chest flexing upwards out of the sand like an invisible rope was yanking him skywards, like his muscles were clenching and propelling him at random. Jos removed the pads, and he collapsed, once again limp in the sand. Leine bent over him, tilting her head to listen over his mouth, his chest.

“His heart’s beating, but weak,” she said. Mikael scrambled back to his side and could see — the chest rising and falling, slowly, but regularly, as he drew in ragged sips of air.

“Did that start his heart?” Mikael asked. “Is he going to live?”

Jos and Leine shared a look. “Help us carry him to the cart,” Jos said, eventually. “We can get him warm, at least.”

[takencarewhump]

Slime Attack

Little resus story set in Stardew Valley.

Harvey sipped his third cup of coffee for the day and then continued fiddling with his pen. The clinic was slow again. Nothing exciting happened in the valley, which was good most of the time. He had decided long ago that a life of excitement and stress wasn’t for him. He was cut of a different cloth, one perfect for 10am appointments with crotchety old men and yearly checkups on the same twenty villagers.

(Though, on some warm, summer days when Harvey would look to the sky and see planes dipping in and out of the clouds he couldn’t help but wish that that life was for him. How different, how strange, how exciting would it be to be like them. So much more than just a simple, boring small-town doctor.)

Harvey finished his third cup of coffee. He looked up from the front desk and stared at the empty waiting room. He sighed and turned towards the coffee maker for the fourth time today.

The door slammed open. “Harvey! Harvey!” Harvey jumped and dropped his mug. He turned and saw Maru stumbling through the door, a body hanging limply off her shoulder. The Farmer?!

Maru and the Farmer crashed to the ground, Maru on her hands and knees. The Farmer flopped to the tile limp as a bag of grain. Harvey rushed over and rolled her over. Her head was coated in a thick, slightly opaque green liquid. He ran a thumb across her freckled cheek then pinched the substance between his fingers. Slime.

“The mine’s elevator! She was semi-conscious when I found her. On the way here she passed out!” Maru crawled to the girl’s side and brushed slime coated hair from her forehead.

Harvey felt dread sink into the pit of his stomach. He pressed one hand to the farmer’s chest and hovered his cheek over her lips, waiting to feel the rise of her chest, a puff of breath against his cheek. Seconds ticked by. The Farmer was deadly still. Harvey placed two fingers against her neck, then breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s in complete respiratory arrest, but she still has a pulse.” Harvey hauled the girl into his arms, stumbling slightly under her deadweight. “Get the defibrillator and meet me in the exam room!”

Harvey backed into the swinging doors of the exam room and laid the Farmer down onto the table. He opened her mouth and saw that it was completely full of slime. He swiped her mouth with two fingers and flicked globs of the fluid onto the floor. Once her mouth was for the most part cleared, he took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and sealed his lips over hers, not expecting her to get a full breath but testing to see if her airway was clear. He watched her chest from the corner of his eyes as he expelled the breath into her mouth, cheeks puffing out uselessly. Her chest was still.

Harvey straightened back up, spitting traces of slime from his mouth and cringing at the earthy, algae taste. He wiped slime from his mustache and shivered. Her airway was still completely blocked. How much slime did she swallow?

Harvey straddled the Farmer’s thighs and thrust his hands in the middle of her stomach. It felt slightly bloated, firm under his hands. He pressed in and up, watching as her head rolled to the side. A small amount of slime trickled out of her nose. Harvey pressed harder. Her body rocked. More slime fell from her mouth and nose, leaving a small puddle of it on the table. Again, then again, until Harvey was panting from exertion. He swiped her mouth then tried for another rescue breath. Still, her chest refused to rise.

Maru ran into the room, wheeling the defibrillator behind her. She looked at the Farmer, then Harvey, concerned. Harvey shook his head and spoke between abdominal thrusts. “She must have drowned. In one of them. Her lungs are completely. Full of it!” More slime slowly splatted to the table. Harvey tried to force a breath into her throat again. He cursed as he met resistance. “It’s viscous. Hard to force out. Come on girl!”

Time ticked by. Harvey checked the clock. The Farmer was in respiratory arrest for at least three minutes now. The slime dripped from her mouth at a snail's pace. Her tanned skin was taking on an ashy parlor. Maru watched, clearly nervous, but keeping her cool far better than Harvey expected. At the four minute mark, a gurgle, almost coughing sound forced itself out of the Farmer's lips. Harvey quickly cleared her mouth again then attempted another rescue breath. This time, with only slight resistance, the Farmer's chest rose. Harvey smiled, then breathed for the Farmer again. He pulled back, half expecting to see her spring up and start coughing. But she didn't.

Harvey's blood chilled. He pressed two shaking fingers into the pulse point at her neck. At first he thought there was nothing, that she was gone. He laid his head to her chest and held his breath. Silence, then a stumble. A skip. A beat. Her heart was fumbling arrhythmicly, barely clinging on. “She’s arrhythmic!”

Instantly, shears were in his hand. He nodded his thanks to Maru before snipping the straps of the Farmer's overalls and rolling them down to her knees. He cut through her light linen shirt, then the middle of her simple black bra, exposing her chest to the cold air of the clinic. Her chest and stomach were several shades paler than the rest of her body, and freckled. Harvey forced himself to avert his gaze, focus on placing the electrodes on her chest. Adrenaline coursed through his body, reminding him that she was no more than his patient. His dying patient.

Maru pushed the defibrillator paddles into his hand, snapping Harvey back to reality. “Gelled and charged to 200!”

Harvey nodded and pressed them roughly against the Farmer’s bare chest. “Clear!” He pressed the buttons on the paddles, releasing an arc of electricity through the Farmer’s chest. Her body reacted like it was kicked, jumping, recoiling, then crashing to the table. Her breasts rocked with the momentum. Harvey glanced at the screen on the monitor. Her heart pumped normally for five beats before falling back into arrhythmia. “Charge to 250!”

As Maru charged the paddles, Harvey leaned over the Farmer and fed her another rescue breath, forcing it deep down her throat. He placed one hand on the Farmer’s naked ribcage, ensuring that he felt the flex as it filled with his air. He gave her a second, then a third, before the paddles finished charging.

This time Maru pressed the paddles against her ribs, wriggling them slightly to ensure proper placement. Her brow was furrowed, but instead of fear her eyes shone with determination. Harvey couldn’t help but feel proud of his nurse. He forced his shaking hands to still. She had stronger nerves than he did.

“Clear!”

The Farmer lurched in the air, breasts jiggling from the sudden force of the shock. She flopped back to the table, eyes half lidded and unseeing. Harvey checked the monitor. One stumbling beat. Then nothing. Flatline.

Harvey lunged to her body, centering his hand on her sternum between her small, round breasts. Harvey started compressions, shallow at first, then settling into a depth of two inches. “One and two and three and four…” The Farmer’s chest caved beneath his hands, sending ripples down her stomach. Maru moved to the Farmer’s head and tipped it back, placing a laryngoscope between her gaping lips and sliding a tube down her throat. At the count of thirty, Maru clipped an ambu bag to the end of the tube and tested her placement by forcing two breaths down the Farmer’s throat. Harvey watched her chest rise, then nodded. “Good placement. Two breaths every thirty compressions. One, two, three…” He resumed compressions, pistoning the girl’s chest almost robotically. Each pump registered on the monitor, a small green blip that signaled the Farmer’s complete reliance on Harvey.

Harvey felt numb and panicked all at once. He hadn’t performed CPR since medical school. Accidents like this don’t happen in the valley. Nothing exciting ever happens in the valley. Harvey watched the way the Farmer’s body reacted to his compressions. He looked at her messy hair, her half lidded eyes. Nothing exciting happened in the valley until she showed up.

Her smile, her gifts, her bag stuffed full of foraged berries and crystals and fish.

Harvey hit thirty then checked her pulse, this time through her femoral artery on her surprisingly soft thigh. As he did, and as Maru administered two more breaths, Harvey remembered the last time he took the Farmer’s pulse at her first annual checkup in Stardew Valley. How quick it was, her flushed cheeks. He never imagined they would end up like this, him feeling for her pulse only to be met with clammy stillness. Harvey cursed and dove onto her chest with renewed vigor, pounding even deeper than he had prior. Her body swayed to the rhythm of it, feet rocking, head swaying. “Come on! Come back to us!”

“Harvey!”

Harvey stopped and checked the monitor. It wasn’t a full, sinus rhythm like he was hoping for, but the monitor registered a skipping arrhythmia as her heart trembled and struggled in her chest. Harvey breathily laughed, despite himself. “Yes! Charging the paddles for 300!”

Maru flooded the Farmer’s bruised and beaten chest with oxygen, keeping a consistent, fast rhythm as she pumped the ambu bag. Harvey picked up the paddles and pressed them into the Farmer’s chest. “Clear!”

Her chest lurched into the air, breasts twitching. She crashed back onto the table, her whole body rolled from the force. Her head swayed, but Maru held it still and flooded her lungs again. Harvey rubbed the Farmer’s chest with one hand and checked the monitor.

Her heart held a sinus rhythm for seven seconds before falling back into irregular, inefficient beats. Harvey took a deep breath and checked the clock. At least 11 minutes since the Farmer’s heart held a regular rhythm, and she was in complete respiratory arrest for at least 14. Harvey turned the dial on the defibrillator as far to the right as it could go. “360! Charging!”

As the defibrillator charged, Harvey squeezed the Farmer’s hand then stroked her slick cheek. “Come on, girl! I need you to come back to me!”

The paddles beeped, indicating they were charged. Harvey pressed them firm against the Farmer’s chest, using the excess of gel to slide them into place. He glanced at the Farmer’s face, her pale cheeks, her blue lips. He prayed to Yoba, to anything that would listen that this would work. “Clear!”

The Farmer jerked up, back arching, and fell heavy back to the bed. The monitor showed a regular rhythm, but Harvey still held his breath and Maru continued to breathe for the Farmer. The room was tense, both waiting for the Farmer to fall back into fibrillation.

She groaned, then her eyes fluttered open. Maru laughed, shoulders finally untensing. Harvey placed his hand to the Farmer’s cheek. “You’re ok! You’re ok…”

The Farmer reached for the tube in her mouth, but Harvey caught her hand. “Not yet! Not yet. Just relax, when you’re more stable we can consider it.” He wanted to cheer. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep for a week, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Not after today.

When he looked down, he saw the Farmer studying his face. She moved her hand to her waist, then her hip. Patting her body down until she found her pocket. The Farmer grabbed something, a small bottle, and placed it in Harvey’s hand. Harvey grabbed it, then held it up to his face. “Truffle Oil?” He stared, first at the bottle, then the Farmer. He laughed, unable to contain it. “Thanks! This will be fantastic drizzled on pasta.”

[takencarewhump]

incapacitation

content warning

drugs that make a character woozy and disoriented. slurring words and falling slack, everything too heavy and confusing and muffled

blown pupils, wandering eyes, breathing too much or too little. sweating, shaking, puking, so limp and pale it’s almost like they’re dead

fevers so high a character's mind just turns to mush. glossy eyes tracking the ceiling, listless and unaware until eventually there's sweat sticking all over the sheets and they start mumbling some vague responses to caretaker's questions

tranquilizer dart that brings a character down all at once. one sudden jerk or look of confusion, not enough time to glance at it much less pull it out before eyes are rolling back and they collapse into the dirt

tranquilizer dart that comes on slowly. pulling it out and running and running until each step becomes too uncoordinated, stumbling or getting dragged along by a teammate until even their begging to stay awake, let's go, becomes hazy and distant

struck so hard that everything rings in one ugly roar. staggering or falling, told to sit down, just stay down. so confused and lost, repeating the same questions and forgetting the answer over and over and over again

character so messed up they struggle to follow any part of the conversation. everything too heavy and confusing and muffled, just useless and incoherent and completely oblivious to the situation

nervous prodding or pleading by caretaker, begging them to just stay awake or focus

jostled around by captor, told to get the fuck up and follow orders, easily manhandled around and restrained

mumbling nonsense and spilling secrets. stoic characters without any masks, so confused and broken and vulnerable, slipping and powerless in every sort of way

"you're okay, i promise you're okay"

“ah, shit. you’re a mess—”

“I guess you won’t remember this anyways…”

gaze drifting and blank, too faraway to track anything caretaker/captor is saying. nudged and prodded and pleaded at to no avail, just incoherent and out of it

too weak to move. beaten absolutely senseless or bleeding all over the place, a character just hurting and spent beyond means and sprawled flat against the ground

getting dragged along or stepped on, pinned down as if they're in any state to go anywhere

hypnotized and stunned into mindlessness. repeated mantras and rewired thoughts, a character made pliable and blank and used like a puppet

paralyzed but fully aware, left slack and useless and desperate with limp muscles and depressed breathing. assumed dead and abandoned, grieved over or dumped aside like a corpse, forced to watch and unable to do anything

poisoned and just getting worse and worse. teammates desperately looking for a cure while character deteriorates, puking and passing out and getting high fevers, hallucinating and begging for relief

characters taken out of commission when they're otherwise the strongest one. exposed to a weakness, given magical restraints or cuffs with neural suppressors to keep them docile, targeted and taken out

vertigo taking a character side to side, brought down and useless

[takencarewhump]

Posting one of my actual (fandom-related) full fics on here... be nice!!

This is some good ol' intubation whump because it's my favourite.

(for slight context of character, see this old post)

When the call comes in, everybody in the ER is hoping it isn't Coop. Especially Neela.

Severe asthma attack. 26 year old male.

Somehow, because it's his day off and he really ought to be relaxing, it seems almost impossible for him to find himself back in the hospital as a patient. It just… isn't fair.

That doesn't stop the wheels of the gurney from rolling through the doors, though. Doesn't change the fact that Coop is laying half-conscious on top of it, his quick, shallow breaths fogging a nebulizer mask, his skin so pale it looks ashen.

“26 year old male,” the paramedic conducting the transfer restates. “Severe asthma attack with symptoms pointing to onset of status asthmaticus. Albuterol administered, as well as 0.5mg subcutaneous epinephrine, both to minimal effect.”

Dr Lewis, the attending on the case, moves to Coop’s side, slipping the chest piece of her stethoscope underneath his t-shirt as they continue to move into one of the trauma rooms. Her expression, when she withdraws it, is severe.

“His airways are pretty much closed up. He needs more epi now.”

Abby hurries to drag a crash cart in, and Neela follows the gurney all the way until it's positioned in the trauma room, at which point she starts readying an IV kit with shaking hands.

Coop does not look good. Even when compared to the time she almost killed him with epi. At least then he'd been alert, sitting up, and his skin hadn't lost all of its colour like it has now.

Dr Lewis returns from fetching some more equipment, and as she waits for Abby to arrive with the crash cart, she strokes Coop’s hair reassuringly.

“Hang on, sweetheart, we’re going to help you feel better. Just keep breathing for me, okay?”

Through weak wheezes that emerge from blue-tinged lips, Coop nods. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.

Neela hasn't seen an asthma attack this severe in person before, but she knows from med school how dangerous they can be- especially when the patient is as tired as Coop is. It isn't clear how long he's been struggling this much to breathe. The colour of his skin (or lack of, for that matter) tells her it's been too long.

If they don't work quickly, his body will run out of energy. He'll stop breathing, too exhausted to even inhale anymore. He'll lose oxygen.

He'll die.

“Neela, I need an IV of 100mg hydrocortisone.”

She turns to find Dr Lewis’ keen gaze on her. There's a thinly veiled panic in the attending’s eyes that quickly disappears as she turns back to Coop, gently trying to reassure him as he fights for air.

“I’m going to page Pratt as well, alright, Coop? He can get you some more albuterol so your nebulizer doesn't dry out.”

Neela can't see whether Coop replies, but if he does, it isn't audible. All she can hear is his terrifying wheeze and the hum of the nebulizer, shortly joined by a rapid beeping as a nurse finally helps him take off his shirt and hooks him up to a monitor. She doesn't dare turn around to look at his oxygen saturation. It's likely going to keep plummeting.

Instead, she focuses on setting up the cannula in Coop’s trembling arm, her left hand holding it steady while her right slides the needle in.

“There we are, Coop.” she murmurs. “You're doing so well, sweetheart.”

The pet name feels stranger coming from her lips than Dr Lewis', but at this point her slight blush is the least of their worries. While Coop’s this sick, it doesn't matter what she calls him. He just needs to start breathing properly again.

Once the IV site has been secured with a clear sticker, Neela measures out the dose of hydrocortisone. 100mg. When they're giving it as a steroid over a longer period of time, they prescribe 20-30mg a day, in two doses. The fact that they're pumping him full of this much at once is testament to just how emergent his case is.

“100mg hydrocortisone going in.” she announces. Connects the needle to the cannula. Pushes down on the plunger of the syringe.

Despite her accumulated knowledge surrounding medication, Neela still half expects the effects to be immediate. For Coop to suddenly relax, his airway opening up again, the colour gradually suffusing his cheeks. For the wheezing to fade as he breathes in properly for the first time in hours.

It doesn't. None of this happens.

Minute by minute, Coop continues to deteriorate. Abby brings in the crash cart. Dr Lewis injects the epinephrine beneath the skin of his forearm and, unlike before, he doesn't even react to the needle. His eyes flicker like his awareness is slipping away from him.

By the time Pratt arrives to switch out Coop’s nebulizer, such a small intervention becomes pointless. Even if Coop were able to breathe properly, time has proven that albuterol, on this occasion, just isn't working. Pratt sets down the new nebulizer and instantly crosses to Coop’s bedside, brow furrowed.

“Coop, man, can I listen to your chest?”

A barely perceptible nod.

When Pratt presses the cold stethoscope against Coop’s heaving chest, it seems more of a confirmatory action than one that's actually necessary. He sighs, shaking his head. Coop, as evidenced by the blue tinge to his lips, his rolling eyes, the pallor of his skin, is officially status asthmaticus.

He's in respiratory failure.

Things suddenly grow a lot more urgent. Pratt gives Lewis a gesture that she reciprocates, and a nurse pulls the crash cart closer to the bed. Neela’s heart sinks just as Abby sinks into position right at Coop’s bedside, crouching next to him as she strokes his hair and updates him.

“Sweetheart, your breathing isn't where we need it to be, okay? You're not getting enough oxygen. We need to put you to sleep for a while… intubate you. Do you understand?”

Coop closes his eyes, humming in assent even as a frightened tear slips down his cheek.

“Ju-just… d-d-do… iiiiit.”

His voice is shot. Weak. Resigned to his fate.

It's the same phrase he used when Abby shocked his heart back into a regular rhythm a few months ago. Back then, though, it had simply been a plea to get things over with.

Now, it seems not only a desperate entreaty, but also a solemn reminder:

I’ve been here before.

Neela knows, just as the other staff do, that Coop’s been super sick a couple of times. He knows what it's like to wake up in the ICU feeling like you're breathing through a straw. He knows what it's like for weeks to pass in the span of a minute.

He knows that when he's tubed, he can breathe, and that’s all that matters.

“We’re going to look after you, sweetheart, I promise.” Abby says, her own eyes a little misty. She brushes the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and squeezes his hand. One of the other nurses adjusts the bed so it's laying flat. The tears, terrified, continue to stream silently down his cheeks.

Abby lifts his hand, pressing an almost motherly kiss to the back of it, while Pratt slots a syringe full of medication into the cannula of his other hand.

“Propofol and some muscle relaxants are going to go in now, man. Just relax and let yourself drift off- we’ve got you.”

As the syringe is pushed, Neela can see Coop’s grip on Abby’s hand loosen. The thick tears decorating his cheeks seem, in themselves, to slow down, the scared expression in his eyes melting away beneath the anaesthetic. He blinks once. Twice.

Gone.

There's something so unnerving about Coop being still. How, as Pratt brushes his index finger underneath Coop’s eyelashes, the latter doesn't stir at all to crack a smile. When Dr Lewis gets into position behind his head and adjusts her patient accordingly, he's limp and movable. Floppy.

“Pratt, can you get that nebulizer off?”

“Sure.”

There are red marks across Coop's face from where the straps of the mask dug into his skin for hours. Now, he doesn't breathe at all. He looks dead. According to the dropping numbers on the monitor, he may as well be dead.

“Laryngoscope.”

“Here. Laryngoscope.”

A nurse places the metal instrument into Dr Lewis' awaiting hand. Her other hand gently tilts Coop’s head back.

“Alright… sliding laryngoscope in… got slight cord visualisation. Tube?”

“Tube.”

Neela watches her angle the endotracheal tube in with bated breath- and for good reason.

“C’mon, Coop.” Lewis murmurs, desperately trying to gain access. “I need to help you breathe, sweetheart. Let me help you breathe.”

Pratt steps up next to her, arms crossed. “Difficult airway?”

“Nearly impossible. Haven't seen this level of inflammation in a long time. Poor guy must have been so incredibly uncomfortable.”

The monitor continues to blare. Coop’s oxygen levels continue to drop.

Abby, still positioned right next to him, stroking his hair even as he lays there unconscious, glances worriedly at the screen.

“His sats aren't looking good.”

Dr Lewis sighs. “Yeah, I know, I'm just trying to- there.”

Her relief is palpable, and Neela knows at once that she’s finally in. She watches the tube slot into place before Lewis inflates the cuff, and Pratt connects everything up to the vent.

“Tube’s misting.” Abby says gently, as everyone begins to relax. “Looks like good placement.”

Pratt pulls his stethoscope out from around his neck.

“I’ll check.”

He moves to Coop's side and checks his breathing, first auscultating the left side of his chest, then the right. It's odd, Neela thinks, to observe how natural his breathing looks now, when only moments ago it was erratic and desperate- but of course, it isn't technically him breathing now at all. They've taken over for him.

After a few more checks with the stethoscope across Coop’s chest and neck, Pratt stands up, slinging the device back around his own neck.

“Bilateral breath sounds. You're in.”

Everyone in the room seems to relax at once, especially when the numbers on the monitor start to creep up to normal.

“Alright,” Dr Lewis breathes, turning to Abby. “Secure it, then we'll get him down to ICU. Keep him on max settings until we know it's safe to start weaning him off."

She moves back, as does Pratt, and Abby stands, giving Coop’s hair one last gentle run through with her fingers before she moves away to fetch the tube holder. Neela's eyes remain fixed on him, though. It's impossible not to when he's so completely still.

“You alright, Neela?” Abby asks gently as she returns a few moments later.

Neela nods. “Yeah, I just… it's so different when you know them. I didn't realise how sick it would make me feel.”

Abby gives her a small reassuring smile, then focuses her attention back on the packaging she's just picked up, tearing it open and pulling out the holder before she starts to peel off the tape on the pads.

“I know what you mean. It's not easy seeing somebody you care about like this, and it's somehow even harder with a person like Coop. He's always smiling, always moving, always there, and now…” She presses the first pad against his cheek gently, thumb brushing against it to secure it. “He's not. He's always there to take care of everybody else, and now…” She applies the other pad, movements just as careful and attentive. “He needs us to take care of him.”

Neela hums affirmatively, watching her secure the tube.

“There's just so much at stake. So much that could go wrong, and nearly did. Maybe it even has.”

Abby finishes, standing up fully again and adjusting things ever so slightly. Coop looks like the other patients in the ICU now, and it makes Neela’s stomach roll with anxiety.

“It isn't easy.” Abby responds. “But that's what the ER’s like, even if it happens with one of our own. It's fast-paced, it's risky, and sometimes the worst happens. Sometimes, we can't easily cure a patient, and we have to hope that they'll fight enough on their own to get through things.”

“Do you think he will? Coop?”

“There are no guarantees, but if anyone's going to, it's him.” She looks down at him with a mixture of affection and admiration. Her thumb strokes along the curve of his jaw. “He just needs to hang on long enough for the inflammation to go down. He just needs to do something which is pretty alien to him, and rest. Let us do some of the heavy lifting for a while until he's strong enough to do it on his own again.”

Neela nods. “He'll get through it.”

Abby smiles. “Exactly. He'll get through it… You’re a tough one, aren't you, sweetheart?” She brushes back some more sweat-damp and unruly hair from his forehead. “Let's get you somewhere you can rest, hm?”

Coop remains still, the only sign he's still there at all being the beeping of the monitor and the fogging of the tube. But somehow, as Neela helps Abby raise the railings of the bed ready for transport, she knows he's going to come out of this.

He always does.

[takencarewhump]

"mouth to mouth", educational poster, 1911

[takencarewhump]

Pneumonia whumpee being poked, prodded, listened to, etc. Embarrassed that Caretaker has to see them in such a pathetic state. Bonus points for intubation anxiety and Caretaker trying to reassure Whumpee that they'll be okay.

For the fourth time in what feels like ten minutes, whumpee is hoisted up, leaning against caretaker and breathing raggedly as the doctor presses the cool metal of the stethoscope against their chest and back. They can hear the crackling of their lungs without the device, so god knows how bad it sounds to the doctor. Caretaker brushes back their hair, hand lingering on their feverish forehead.

"Alright, take a deep breath for me." The doctor murmurs quietly, brow furrowed seriously.

Whumpee inhales, their grip on Caretaker's arm tightening with the rush of pain it sends flooding through them. Their head spins. Even with such an intense effort, they feel as though they haven't received any oxygen at all- the mask on their face doesn't seem to be doing anything to rectify that either.

After a few moments, the doctor draws away, and caretaker helps whumpee lay back down, exhausted and light-headed. The look on the doctor's face is hardly reassuring.

"Your breathing's not any better, I'm afraid. We've tried putting you on maximum oxygen but the pneumonia has developed too far for that to help."

whumpee doesn't have the energy to speak. they've already been poked full of needles for ABG tests, medications, etc. Their arms are littered with bruises. Their chest aches with every movement. The fever that burns through them is agonising too.

it's caretaker, therefore, that voices the all-important question.

"What... what does that mean, then?"

the doctor sighs, placing the stethoscope back around their neck. "I know this is hard to hear, but at this stage one of the avenues of treatment is intubation. We'd put whumpee in a medically induced coma for a while to let their body rest and recover. At the moment, they're expending too much energy on just breathing. this would take that load off their shoulders."

whumpee turns their head weakly, still resting on the pillow. caretaker's eyes are misty with tears.

when they see whumpee's worried expression, however, they sigh, moving in closer to press a kiss to their forehead.

"you're going to be just fine, sweetheart."

whumpee swallows, nostrils flaring. "t-tired."

"I know... you're going to go to sleep for a while, whumpee. have nice sweet dreams.

it's going to be okay."

**

part 2??? do people wanna see me do an actual intubation drabble??? writing about my odd obsession in detail??? lmk!!

[takencarewhump]

Random little asthma/wildfire story. CW: asthma attack, fire season, mouth to mouth

I've had asthma for so long now, I barely have to think about bringing my inhalers wherever I go and taking my meds daily. Of course, sometimes I even screw that up. If I've been drinking, I'm usually hooped. And that's how I got into this bloody situation. 

I'm on vacation, my friend and I crashed at her parents boat house. Of course we've spent the weekend completely hammered, and of course, despite the fact I dutifully brought my medication, I've forgotten to take it for three days. You're not supposed to stop cold turkey with those kinds of long-term meds. When I do, I notice things like arrhythmias. Rapid heart beat. Tachycardic racing, especially with effort. Problem is, I kinda dig the light-headedness and the feeling of my heart going a mile a minute. So maybe I've let the meds slide on purpose...

It's the middle of the night, the house still pitched in darkness, when my friend shakes me awake roughly. 

"We have to leave," she says urgently. "They've just told us to evacuate."

I'm light headed as I get to my feet, swaying, feeling that familiar gallop in my chest just from the change in elevation. "Does it...does it smell like --" the rest of my question is lost in coughing and my friend nods.

"The fire is just across the lake." 

It's been dogging us all weekend, the stupid fire. But the news was sure it would change directions...

I move to the patio doors, squinting into the darkness in the direction of the river and sure enough, over the hill and the roofs of other houses I see a glowing orange light diffused across the opposite side of the water.

"Holy-" I start, but that too is lost in coughing. 

"Come'on," my friend tugs on my arm. "We have to go."

We grab what we can from the house and climb into my friend's old beater of a car. The roads are dense with other people leaving their vacation lots, and our progress is slow. The smoke grows heavier with each passing minute. The car is an old one and the roll up windows don't want to stay sealed. Curls of putrid air the colour of fog make their way through the cracks. I keep it together for a while. Covering my face with part of my shirt. But soon the coughing starts to bleed into itself and I'm no longer sure where one attack starts and another ends. 

"You okay?" My friend asks, but I'm not able to answer. 

"Okay, I'm....I'm gonna divert us toward the hospital," she decides, cranking the steering wheel to the side and leaving the column of slow moving traffic out of town. 

I'd question her plan, but I can't reply. My lungs are struggling vainly, no amount of air I get seems to be enough. I can feel numbness and tingling in my extremities, and, when I clutch my knees, I notice my fingernails turned white under my skin. My rescue inhaler is in my purse and I grope for it blindly, finally feeling the narrow plastic column in my palm. I take six quick rescue breaths, and feel a little better after that, sucking in oxygen greedily-- but when I unfurl my hand over my chest I can feel my heart going crazy fast. Dizziness washes over me as the thudding does something odd -- lub.....dub...lublub... lubdub, lubdub. The skip is so hard it hurts and I gasp. My friend's eyes dart in my direction. 

"What's happening, are you okay?"

"My-- my heart," I gasp. "It did something strange."

Another skip -- lubdub, lubdub, lublubublub... dub...lubdub, lubdub.

I lean my head back against the headrest and try to breathe through it. Things get black and hazy while I struggle, and the next thing I know there's fire hitting the front of the car with a BANG.

My friend screams, she tries to back us away from the falling debris. Out the windshield I can see fire crackling in the darkness in the trees above. The car makes a jerking motion backward, debris sliding off the hood. She turns in her seat and starts to back us out of danger, then accelerates forward, swerving around the blockage in the road. There's not quite enough room and the road is rough with fallen logs, the wheels must turn against a downed tree, and the next thing I know there's a thud -- and the airbag explodes in my face. 

My skin feels hot. I'm sweating profusely. I can't seem to see straight and my chest is heaving, but I'm barely getting any air. The corners of my vision are dark and blurry, my heart feels like it's racing directly against my sternum, skipping painfully every few seconds. The car door is wrenched open, someone manages to get my seatbelt undone. My friend is pulling me from the car. 

"Come'on!" She shouts, but I'm practically limp as she slips her arms under me and heaves me up. She's coughing now too, and if I could speak I would tell her to leave me. Sparks of orange light are dancing all around us and the sound of the fire is overwhelming.

My friend manages to drag me, stumbling down the road. We're both coughing violently, but between my coughs there's no relief, no air at all. I can feel my heart start to stumble, going faster than I've ever felt before. We manage to escape the worst of the flames, the heat abating enough that I can feel the cold air of night on my skin when I collapse. 

"No, no, no," my friend cries, kneeling over me, her eyes darting up at the fire we've only just escaped. "You gotta breathe, come'on, breathe!"

My body hitches, spasms, I don't have the strength to cough anymore. My lips are blue in the firelight, my skin pale under a haze of ash.

"Please," my friend cries. She tips back my head and pinches my nose, covering my mouth with hers. A deep breath blows hot into my mouth and my chest rises slightly. "Please!" She says again, and again leans down to breathe for me. 

It works a little, I blink back at her, my breathing a low rattle. She gets up, then disappears and I don't know where she's gone. 

I'm alone.

My heart skips again, pain lancing through me as it becomes desperate in its gallop, struggling to move the pathetic amount of available oxygen to my brain and organs. I blink through black, and when I open my eyes, my friend has returned, pressing hard plastic to my mouth. She squeezes my rescue inhaler, but I'm not breathing, so there is no relief. She curses, squeezing my nose shut with one hand and forcing my lips closed around the plastic mouthpiece. She squeezes it a few times fast and hard and I taste iron on my tongue. I grunt, gasp, grunt.

"Come'on!" She cries, moving her hand to rub between my breasts. "Breathe, dammit!"

I make no sound and she tries again, squeezing six quick puffs into her own mouth, then covering mine and pinching my nose, exhaling her recycled breath and some of my medication hard past the thick inflammation of my throat and into my lungs.

Be-beat..... beat. Beat. Beat. Be-beat......... be-be-be-beat.......

I gasp raggedly, a harsh grunting sound more like a snore, my arms contracting toward my chest. My throat is so swollen, there's no way enough of the medication can make its way down to the inflamed tissue inside my lungs. 

"Over here!" Someone shouts in the distance, and my friend straightens up, waving her arms desperately over her head. 

"Over here! Help us!" 

And then my heart skips... fibrillates... I grunt...

And lie still.

That's when you arrive.