Kurt can’t breathe. Lying on the rippled hardwood, surrounded by pieces of shredded canvas, Kurt can’t breathe. He reaches for it with his long lean limbs. He stretches across the floor, pushing debris; wood, paint, glass. Even with the tips of his fingers extended as far as they can reach, he doesn’t find it. It’s the feeling of being trapped under the air mattress in the pool, with someone sitting on top of it. Pushing, stretching, aching, desperate. But there’s no way to the surface.

It’s been two days since it happened, and he still can’t find any air. He listlessly pulls himself up off the floor and in an attempt to alleviate the growing pressure in his chest he turns on the TV. One of the pieces of broken glass impales the soft underside of his foot as he stands, but he takes no notice; his body has attention only for the images on the screen.

He knows the news coverage won’t help him, in fact he can feel it strangling him a little more. What would really do him good would be some food, or a shower. He can feel the two day old sweat still pooled underneath his arms. But he continues to watch the blood on the screen. The endless stream of commentary, the conspiracy theories, the bodies. The dark skin, the light skin, the panic; the claustrophobia filling up the city around him, leaking the toxic stench of paranoia throughout the country.

Kurt studies the bodies on the screen, feeling strangely disconnected from them. He doesn’t see them, not really; he’s looking only for one. He thinks of getting on the subway, going somewhere far away. He imagines that maybe, somewhere else in the city it would be easier to breathe. He discards the idea when he realizes the subways probably aren’t running anymore.

He moves towards the kitchen, ignoring the glass that’s burrowing deeper into his foot, and pours himself a cup of cold coffee. His body realizes his mistake before his brain does.

He vomits. The smell is an emetic, forcing the contents of his stomach onto the floor. All of a sudden he’s choking; the lack of air in his lungs overtakes him and he falls to the floor hard . As he tucks his head between his knees and tries to breathe, he hears strains of the commentary continue from the television set in the next room.

“A day of great loss for our country...”

“A devastating blow to the liberty, our America holds so dear...”

“The loss of life....too catastrophic...”

He feels a bitter stab of pain as he listens to the entire country mourn the loss of life and liberty, but not a single person mentions what he will mourn most.

What was perhaps the greatest of unalienable American rights:

The pursuit of happiness.