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Bored, archiving crap at work instead of being able to work. Soyou can have a story. Wrote this back while the Iraq "thing" was in full flow.
====
Private Stephen Waters of the United States Marine Corps lay on his back on the sand, staring at the unrelenting desert sky. How long had he been lying here like this? It was impossible to tell. Every moment seemed to stretch into an age, and he had no comprehension of time. If nothing else, the sun had not perceptibly changed position while he had been lying here.
He breathed, and pain racked his chest as his lungs expanded within. Only one of them was working properly, the other was punctured and was slowly filling with blood. The pain wasn’t limited to his chest though. It was hard to tell where all the pain was, he felt as though his body were ten times it’s normal size to be carrying so much agony. He tried to place the wounds that riddled his body like a worm-ridden apple.
Starting from the lowest, his left leg, just below the knee, had been hit. He couldn’t be sure if the bullet had hit the bone dead on, certainly he held no ambitions of trying to stand on it any time soon, but the pain was terrible. He had given up trying to move it, how long ago? He didn’t know. His stomach was hit as well. This was where most of the pain was blossoming from. The torturous ebbing coming from his belly alone had kept him in tears for what seemed like hours until finally he had no tears left to cry. He was convinced that if he would only build up the courage to crane his neck, he would see a river of dark blood escaping like a crimson exodus from his pierced abdomen. But he didn’t look. He didn’t dare. His chest had been holed also, on the right side. He knew the bullet had continued through his lung, and had most likely exited his back in a fashion far less pretty than the penny sized hole that would be found on his chest if only he could defy the agony and take a look.
The only injury he could visually assess was his right arm. He dropped his gaze from the unchanging sky and looked at the broken mangle of flesh that was once his most useful limb. The arm had taken at least two hits, and hadn’t fared very well against them. His forearm was bleeding steadily onto the sand, the bullet having shattered the bone halfway up and left it exposing itself beyond the skin. The bone was whiter than Stephen would have thought. He was reminded of the darkened bones that one envisioned hanging from plastic skeletons in high school biology labs, and thought for a while how interesting it was that the real thing looked so much cleaner. His upper arm told a different story. The bullet had gone straight through, but had taken with it, for it’s trouble a huge chunk of the muscle tissue from his bicep. Again, the bone was exposed, but this time not broken. The humerus, he recalled, for no reason he could name.
As a stream of blood made its way past his lips, he remembered suddenly why he had been staring at the sky in the first place. He tried to put his head back upright, but it was harder now than it had been last time. Sleep was threatening to take over again, and the effort seemed too much. He wanted to sleep, wanted to so badly. Asleep, the pain would go away. He would wake up in a US controlled hospital, and everything would be OK. His wife would be there. She would bring his newborn son, who he had not yet even seen, and together they would give him a name. Everything would be just fine, if he went to sleep.
But he knew better. The pain was a torment, an absolute affront to his will to live, but he had to endure it. The growing desire to fall into slumber was tempting, but it was also a lie. If he fell into darkness, he would never return. His leg cried in agony, his belly screamed for mercy, his chest begged him to stop breathing and his arm wished for the nightmare to end. He had to endure. All of life had turned against him, but he had to endure.
He fought the urge to sleep, and slowly, painfully turned his gaze back to the sky. The flow of blood from his mouth slowed, and eventually stopped. Time began meandering slowly forward again. The sun not moving, the hot sky slowly scorching his exposed skin, his body willing him to sleep the pain away. Every breath came as a wave of pain. Every wave of pain brought about an overwhelming desire to move something, a leg, and arm, a shoulder. Every movement produced a second wave of pain that took his breath away, and made him need to breathe again. Oh, to just sleep it away. Nothing was worth this much torture.
More time passes, yet nothing changes bar the ever-growing appetite for sleep. He also begins to find it strange that he feels so cold in an environment so hot. His skin burns and yet he is feels as though packs of ice have been used to fill the gaps left by the blood that has spilled onto the sand. His vision begins to blur, and he can no longer tell if the sun is moving.
They’ve left me here to die, he thinks. What happened to “no-one gets left behind”?
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than he hears voices. Voices. It should have meant something. Hope, perhaps. Maybe even rescue. An escape from the pain. But for some reason, it meant nothing. He was cold, he was burning, he was bleeding and he was broken all over. The voices became louder. He tried to yell at them to leave him in peace, leave him to his battle between the pain and the coming sleep.
The sky is obscured. Private Stephen Waters’ eyes can’t focus on what has obstructed his view, and so just shuts his eyes. He tries to not let the sleep take him. It’s need is so much more powerful with his eyes closed.
“Steve? Steve, are you alright?” a voice asks. American. Was he in the hospital now? No. the sand was still underneath him, soaked with blood. Regardless, the question didn’t dignify an answer.
“Medic!” the voice screams “I need a medic here ASAP!” Stephen begs the voice to be quiet. The noise quickens his breathing and makes the pain worse. It’s so cold now the sun isn’t shining on his face.
“Steve, you’re going to be ok buddy, you hear me?” He recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it. But he knew it was lying. It was cold. Life had become a flower of pain, and the sleep was taking him away. He opened his eyes, but they revealed nothing but a shadow, with what was left of the sky burning roughly at the edges of his vision. Footsteps. Someone was running, towards him from the sound of it. What did it matter? So cold. Why not just sleep? It would be so much easier that way.
“Step back, give me some room.”
“OK”
“What’s his name?”
“Steve. Steve Waters. He’s my friend.”
“Jesus Christ, someone emptied a whole damn clip into him. Steve? Steve can you hear me? Nod your head, or moan or anything. Are you still with us?”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Be quiet, I’ve gotta work quickly. He's almost gone.”
Why do they have to shout? Why can’t they leave me alone? It wasn’t as cold before they got here. The sleep didn’t beckon as strongly while the sun was shining. His eyes were still open, but everything was getting darker. The shadows became a resolute black, and even the sky became grey. No point looking at nothingness, he thought, and closed his eyes. The voices seemed to slip into the distance as he did so. Becoming quieter and quieter still until they too disappeared just as the sky had. All that was left was the sound of his breathing. Even the pain, finally, had left him.
He inhaled, and without the pain, it felt as ordinary as if nothing had happened. He felt himself smile as he let the air out of his lungs, and waited for the automatic response to draw the air back in which never came.
====
Private Stephen Waters of the United States Marine Corps lay on his back on the sand, staring at the unrelenting desert sky. How long had he been lying here like this? It was impossible to tell. Every moment seemed to stretch into an age, and he had no comprehension of time. If nothing else, the sun had not perceptibly changed position while he had been lying here.
He breathed, and pain racked his chest as his lungs expanded within. Only one of them was working properly, the other was punctured and was slowly filling with blood. The pain wasn’t limited to his chest though. It was hard to tell where all the pain was, he felt as though his body were ten times it’s normal size to be carrying so much agony. He tried to place the wounds that riddled his body like a worm-ridden apple.
Starting from the lowest, his left leg, just below the knee, had been hit. He couldn’t be sure if the bullet had hit the bone dead on, certainly he held no ambitions of trying to stand on it any time soon, but the pain was terrible. He had given up trying to move it, how long ago? He didn’t know. His stomach was hit as well. This was where most of the pain was blossoming from. The torturous ebbing coming from his belly alone had kept him in tears for what seemed like hours until finally he had no tears left to cry. He was convinced that if he would only build up the courage to crane his neck, he would see a river of dark blood escaping like a crimson exodus from his pierced abdomen. But he didn’t look. He didn’t dare. His chest had been holed also, on the right side. He knew the bullet had continued through his lung, and had most likely exited his back in a fashion far less pretty than the penny sized hole that would be found on his chest if only he could defy the agony and take a look.
The only injury he could visually assess was his right arm. He dropped his gaze from the unchanging sky and looked at the broken mangle of flesh that was once his most useful limb. The arm had taken at least two hits, and hadn’t fared very well against them. His forearm was bleeding steadily onto the sand, the bullet having shattered the bone halfway up and left it exposing itself beyond the skin. The bone was whiter than Stephen would have thought. He was reminded of the darkened bones that one envisioned hanging from plastic skeletons in high school biology labs, and thought for a while how interesting it was that the real thing looked so much cleaner. His upper arm told a different story. The bullet had gone straight through, but had taken with it, for it’s trouble a huge chunk of the muscle tissue from his bicep. Again, the bone was exposed, but this time not broken. The humerus, he recalled, for no reason he could name.
As a stream of blood made its way past his lips, he remembered suddenly why he had been staring at the sky in the first place. He tried to put his head back upright, but it was harder now than it had been last time. Sleep was threatening to take over again, and the effort seemed too much. He wanted to sleep, wanted to so badly. Asleep, the pain would go away. He would wake up in a US controlled hospital, and everything would be OK. His wife would be there. She would bring his newborn son, who he had not yet even seen, and together they would give him a name. Everything would be just fine, if he went to sleep.
But he knew better. The pain was a torment, an absolute affront to his will to live, but he had to endure it. The growing desire to fall into slumber was tempting, but it was also a lie. If he fell into darkness, he would never return. His leg cried in agony, his belly screamed for mercy, his chest begged him to stop breathing and his arm wished for the nightmare to end. He had to endure. All of life had turned against him, but he had to endure.
He fought the urge to sleep, and slowly, painfully turned his gaze back to the sky. The flow of blood from his mouth slowed, and eventually stopped. Time began meandering slowly forward again. The sun not moving, the hot sky slowly scorching his exposed skin, his body willing him to sleep the pain away. Every breath came as a wave of pain. Every wave of pain brought about an overwhelming desire to move something, a leg, and arm, a shoulder. Every movement produced a second wave of pain that took his breath away, and made him need to breathe again. Oh, to just sleep it away. Nothing was worth this much torture.
More time passes, yet nothing changes bar the ever-growing appetite for sleep. He also begins to find it strange that he feels so cold in an environment so hot. His skin burns and yet he is feels as though packs of ice have been used to fill the gaps left by the blood that has spilled onto the sand. His vision begins to blur, and he can no longer tell if the sun is moving.
They’ve left me here to die, he thinks. What happened to “no-one gets left behind”?
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than he hears voices. Voices. It should have meant something. Hope, perhaps. Maybe even rescue. An escape from the pain. But for some reason, it meant nothing. He was cold, he was burning, he was bleeding and he was broken all over. The voices became louder. He tried to yell at them to leave him in peace, leave him to his battle between the pain and the coming sleep.
The sky is obscured. Private Stephen Waters’ eyes can’t focus on what has obstructed his view, and so just shuts his eyes. He tries to not let the sleep take him. It’s need is so much more powerful with his eyes closed.
“Steve? Steve, are you alright?” a voice asks. American. Was he in the hospital now? No. the sand was still underneath him, soaked with blood. Regardless, the question didn’t dignify an answer.
“Medic!” the voice screams “I need a medic here ASAP!” Stephen begs the voice to be quiet. The noise quickens his breathing and makes the pain worse. It’s so cold now the sun isn’t shining on his face.
“Steve, you’re going to be ok buddy, you hear me?” He recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it. But he knew it was lying. It was cold. Life had become a flower of pain, and the sleep was taking him away. He opened his eyes, but they revealed nothing but a shadow, with what was left of the sky burning roughly at the edges of his vision. Footsteps. Someone was running, towards him from the sound of it. What did it matter? So cold. Why not just sleep? It would be so much easier that way.
“Step back, give me some room.”
“OK”
“What’s his name?”
“Steve. Steve Waters. He’s my friend.”
“Jesus Christ, someone emptied a whole damn clip into him. Steve? Steve can you hear me? Nod your head, or moan or anything. Are you still with us?”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Be quiet, I’ve gotta work quickly. He's almost gone.”
Why do they have to shout? Why can’t they leave me alone? It wasn’t as cold before they got here. The sleep didn’t beckon as strongly while the sun was shining. His eyes were still open, but everything was getting darker. The shadows became a resolute black, and even the sky became grey. No point looking at nothingness, he thought, and closed his eyes. The voices seemed to slip into the distance as he did so. Becoming quieter and quieter still until they too disappeared just as the sky had. All that was left was the sound of his breathing. Even the pain, finally, had left him.
He inhaled, and without the pain, it felt as ordinary as if nothing had happened. He felt himself smile as he let the air out of his lungs, and waited for the automatic response to draw the air back in which never came.
Liked it, and the description of death.
It's early in the morning,and I can't find the necessary terse comment, so let's just say I like it.
Nice.
I'd personally like it if werewolves attacked, but that's just my thing.
Enjoyed it.
I'd personally like it if werewolves attacked, but that's just my thing.
Enjoyed it.
Bored, archiving crap at work instead of being able to work. Soyou can have a story. Wrote this back while the Iraq "thing" was in full flow.
====
Private Stephen Waters of the United States Marine Corps lay on his back on the sand, staring at the unrelenting desert sky. How long had he been lying here like this? It was impossible to tell. Every moment seemed to stretch into an age, and he had no comprehension of time. If nothing else, the sun had not perceptibly changed position while he had been lying here.
He breathed, and pain racked his chest as his lungs expanded within. Only one of them was working properly, the other was punctured and was slowly filling with blood. The pain wasn’t limited to his chest though. It was hard to tell where all the pain was, he felt as though his body were ten times it’s normal size to be carrying so much agony. He tried to place the wounds that riddled his body like a worm-ridden apple.
Starting from the lowest, his left leg, just below the knee, had been hit. He couldn’t be sure if the bullet had hit the bone dead on, certainly he held no ambitions of trying to stand on it any time soon, but the pain was terrible. He had given up trying to move it, how long ago? He didn’t know. His stomach was hit as well. This was where most of the pain was blossoming from. The torturous ebbing coming from his belly alone had kept him in tears for what seemed like hours until finally he had no tears left to cry. He was convinced that if he would only build up the courage to crane his neck, he would see a river of dark blood escaping like a crimson exodus from his pierced abdomen. But he didn’t look. He didn’t dare. His chest had been holed also, on the right side. He knew the bullet had continued through his lung, and had most likely exited his back in a fashion far less pretty than the penny sized hole that would be found on his chest if only he could defy the agony and take a look.
The only injury he could visually assess was his right arm. He dropped his gaze from the unchanging sky and looked at the broken mangle of flesh that was once his most useful limb. The arm had taken at least two hits, and hadn’t fared very well against them. His forearm was bleeding steadily onto the sand, the bullet having shattered the bone halfway up and left it exposing itself beyond the skin. The bone was whiter than Stephen would have thought. He was reminded of the darkened bones that one envisioned hanging from plastic skeletons in high school biology labs, and thought for a while how interesting it was that the real thing looked so much cleaner. His upper arm told a different story. The bullet had gone straight through, but had taken with it, for it’s trouble a huge chunk of the muscle tissue from his bicep. Again, the bone was exposed, but this time not broken. The humerus, he recalled, for no reason he could name.
As a stream of blood made its way past his lips, he remembered suddenly why he had been staring at the sky in the first place. He tried to put his head back upright, but it was harder now than it had been last time. Sleep was threatening to take over again, and the effort seemed too much. He wanted to sleep, wanted to so badly. Asleep, the pain would go away. He would wake up in a US controlled hospital, and everything would be OK. His wife would be there. She would bring his newborn son, who he had not yet even seen, and together they would give him a name. Everything would be just fine, if he went to sleep.
But he knew better. The pain was a torment, an absolute affront to his will to live, but he had to endure it. The growing desire to fall into slumber was tempting, but it was also a lie. If he fell into darkness, he would never return. His leg cried in agony, his belly screamed for mercy, his chest begged him to stop breathing and his arm wished for the nightmare to end. He had to endure. All of life had turned against him, but he had to endure.
He fought the urge to sleep, and slowly, painfully turned his gaze back to the sky. The flow of blood from his mouth slowed, and eventually stopped. Time began meandering slowly forward again. The sun not moving, the hot sky slowly scorching his exposed skin, his body willing him to sleep the pain away. Every breath came as a wave of pain. Every wave of pain brought about an overwhelming desire to move something, a leg, and arm, a shoulder. Every movement produced a second wave of pain that took his breath away, and made him need to breathe again. Oh, to just sleep it away. Nothing was worth this much torture.
More time passes, yet nothing changes bar the ever-growing appetite for sleep. He also begins to find it strange that he feels so cold in an environment so hot. His skin burns and yet he is feels as though packs of ice have been used to fill the gaps left by the blood that has spilled onto the sand. His vision begins to blur, and he can no longer tell if the sun is moving.
They’ve left me here to die, he thinks. What happened to “no-one gets left behind”?
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than he hears voices. Voices. It should have meant something. Hope, perhaps. Maybe even rescue. An escape from the pain. But for some reason, it meant nothing. He was cold, he was burning, he was bleeding and he was broken all over. The voices became louder. He tried to yell at them to leave him in peace, leave him to his battle between the pain and the coming sleep.
The sky is obscured. Private Stephen Waters’ eyes can’t focus on what has obstructed his view, and so just shuts his eyes. He tries to not let the sleep take him. It’s need is so much more powerful with his eyes closed.
“Steve? Steve, are you alright?” a voice asks. American. Was he in the hospital now? No. the sand was still underneath him, soaked with blood. Regardless, the question didn’t dignify an answer.
“Medic!” the voice screams “I need a medic here ASAP!” Stephen begs the voice to be quiet. The noise quickens his breathing and makes the pain worse. It’s so cold now the sun isn’t shining on his face.
“Steve, you’re going to be ok buddy, you hear me?” He recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it. But he knew it was lying. It was cold. Life had become a flower of pain, and the sleep was taking him away. He opened his eyes, but they revealed nothing but a shadow, with what was left of the sky burning roughly at the edges of his vision. Footsteps. Someone was running, towards him from the sound of it. What did it matter? So cold. Why not just sleep? It would be so much easier that way.
“Step back, give me some room.”
“OK”
“What’s his name?”
“Steve. Steve Waters. He’s my friend.”
“Jesus Christ, someone emptied a whole damn clip into him. Steve? Steve can you hear me? Nod your head, or moan or anything. Are you still with us?”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Be quiet, I’ve gotta work quickly. He's almost gone.”
Why do they have to shout? Why can’t they leave me alone? It wasn’t as cold before they got here. The sleep didn’t beckon as strongly while the sun was shining. His eyes were still open, but everything was getting darker. The shadows became a resolute black, and even the sky became grey. No point looking at nothingness, he thought, and closed his eyes. The voices seemed to slip into the distance as he did so. Becoming quieter and quieter still until they too disappeared just as the sky had. All that was left was the sound of his breathing. Even the pain, finally, had left him.
He inhaled, and without the pain, it felt as ordinary as if nothing had happened. He felt himself smile as he let the air out of his lungs, and waited for the automatic response to draw the air back in which never came.
====
Private Stephen Waters of the United States Marine Corps lay on his back on the sand, staring at the unrelenting desert sky. How long had he been lying here like this? It was impossible to tell. Every moment seemed to stretch into an age, and he had no comprehension of time. If nothing else, the sun had not perceptibly changed position while he had been lying here.
He breathed, and pain racked his chest as his lungs expanded within. Only one of them was working properly, the other was punctured and was slowly filling with blood. The pain wasn’t limited to his chest though. It was hard to tell where all the pain was, he felt as though his body were ten times it’s normal size to be carrying so much agony. He tried to place the wounds that riddled his body like a worm-ridden apple.
Starting from the lowest, his left leg, just below the knee, had been hit. He couldn’t be sure if the bullet had hit the bone dead on, certainly he held no ambitions of trying to stand on it any time soon, but the pain was terrible. He had given up trying to move it, how long ago? He didn’t know. His stomach was hit as well. This was where most of the pain was blossoming from. The torturous ebbing coming from his belly alone had kept him in tears for what seemed like hours until finally he had no tears left to cry. He was convinced that if he would only build up the courage to crane his neck, he would see a river of dark blood escaping like a crimson exodus from his pierced abdomen. But he didn’t look. He didn’t dare. His chest had been holed also, on the right side. He knew the bullet had continued through his lung, and had most likely exited his back in a fashion far less pretty than the penny sized hole that would be found on his chest if only he could defy the agony and take a look.
The only injury he could visually assess was his right arm. He dropped his gaze from the unchanging sky and looked at the broken mangle of flesh that was once his most useful limb. The arm had taken at least two hits, and hadn’t fared very well against them. His forearm was bleeding steadily onto the sand, the bullet having shattered the bone halfway up and left it exposing itself beyond the skin. The bone was whiter than Stephen would have thought. He was reminded of the darkened bones that one envisioned hanging from plastic skeletons in high school biology labs, and thought for a while how interesting it was that the real thing looked so much cleaner. His upper arm told a different story. The bullet had gone straight through, but had taken with it, for it’s trouble a huge chunk of the muscle tissue from his bicep. Again, the bone was exposed, but this time not broken. The humerus, he recalled, for no reason he could name.
As a stream of blood made its way past his lips, he remembered suddenly why he had been staring at the sky in the first place. He tried to put his head back upright, but it was harder now than it had been last time. Sleep was threatening to take over again, and the effort seemed too much. He wanted to sleep, wanted to so badly. Asleep, the pain would go away. He would wake up in a US controlled hospital, and everything would be OK. His wife would be there. She would bring his newborn son, who he had not yet even seen, and together they would give him a name. Everything would be just fine, if he went to sleep.
But he knew better. The pain was a torment, an absolute affront to his will to live, but he had to endure it. The growing desire to fall into slumber was tempting, but it was also a lie. If he fell into darkness, he would never return. His leg cried in agony, his belly screamed for mercy, his chest begged him to stop breathing and his arm wished for the nightmare to end. He had to endure. All of life had turned against him, but he had to endure.
He fought the urge to sleep, and slowly, painfully turned his gaze back to the sky. The flow of blood from his mouth slowed, and eventually stopped. Time began meandering slowly forward again. The sun not moving, the hot sky slowly scorching his exposed skin, his body willing him to sleep the pain away. Every breath came as a wave of pain. Every wave of pain brought about an overwhelming desire to move something, a leg, and arm, a shoulder. Every movement produced a second wave of pain that took his breath away, and made him need to breathe again. Oh, to just sleep it away. Nothing was worth this much torture.
More time passes, yet nothing changes bar the ever-growing appetite for sleep. He also begins to find it strange that he feels so cold in an environment so hot. His skin burns and yet he is feels as though packs of ice have been used to fill the gaps left by the blood that has spilled onto the sand. His vision begins to blur, and he can no longer tell if the sun is moving.
They’ve left me here to die, he thinks. What happened to “no-one gets left behind”?
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than he hears voices. Voices. It should have meant something. Hope, perhaps. Maybe even rescue. An escape from the pain. But for some reason, it meant nothing. He was cold, he was burning, he was bleeding and he was broken all over. The voices became louder. He tried to yell at them to leave him in peace, leave him to his battle between the pain and the coming sleep.
The sky is obscured. Private Stephen Waters’ eyes can’t focus on what has obstructed his view, and so just shuts his eyes. He tries to not let the sleep take him. It’s need is so much more powerful with his eyes closed.
“Steve? Steve, are you alright?” a voice asks. American. Was he in the hospital now? No. the sand was still underneath him, soaked with blood. Regardless, the question didn’t dignify an answer.
“Medic!” the voice screams “I need a medic here ASAP!” Stephen begs the voice to be quiet. The noise quickens his breathing and makes the pain worse. It’s so cold now the sun isn’t shining on his face.
“Steve, you’re going to be ok buddy, you hear me?” He recognised the voice, but couldn’t place it. But he knew it was lying. It was cold. Life had become a flower of pain, and the sleep was taking him away. He opened his eyes, but they revealed nothing but a shadow, with what was left of the sky burning roughly at the edges of his vision. Footsteps. Someone was running, towards him from the sound of it. What did it matter? So cold. Why not just sleep? It would be so much easier that way.
“Step back, give me some room.”
“OK”
“What’s his name?”
“Steve. Steve Waters. He’s my friend.”
“Jesus Christ, someone emptied a whole damn clip into him. Steve? Steve can you hear me? Nod your head, or moan or anything. Are you still with us?”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Be quiet, I’ve gotta work quickly. He's almost gone.”
Why do they have to shout? Why can’t they leave me alone? It wasn’t as cold before they got here. The sleep didn’t beckon as strongly while the sun was shining. His eyes were still open, but everything was getting darker. The shadows became a resolute black, and even the sky became grey. No point looking at nothingness, he thought, and closed his eyes. The voices seemed to slip into the distance as he did so. Becoming quieter and quieter still until they too disappeared just as the sky had. All that was left was the sound of his breathing. Even the pain, finally, had left him.
He inhaled, and without the pain, it felt as ordinary as if nothing had happened. He felt himself smile as he let the air out of his lungs, and waited for the automatic response to draw the air back in which never came.