Born from the Shards

12/1/1993 (1)

He took his first breath.

What air he'd inhaled was pungent and foul, overwhelming his senses at once. Blanketing his tongue, it slipped down his throat and pooled in his stomach, stirring the contents into a sickly concoction.

He was trapped. In a prison, which was submerged in filth and drowning in darkness. Escape was out of reach, hidden from his untrained, fluttering eyes.

He was lying down—faintly he sensed metal scraps and jagged shards prodding tissue deep into his back, threatening to break skin. His limbs were unresponsive, buried under heaps of foul smelling junk.

I'm stuck, his thoughts (unhelpfully) noted.

This sucks. If he knew how to speak, he would've groaned and cursed his situation.

His first minute alive and he was already screwed.

In his attempt to escape, he thought of a worm, wriggling its way through soil. Or a caterpillar, towered by stomping sneakers atop vibrating pavement, scooting towards dewy grass blades.

He imitated the caterpillar and the worm—or attempted to, at least. Tried wriggling or arching his back or lifting his head, but his body was numb and weak. It was a fruitless task.

His stomach curdled from the ill scent encasing him. He held his breath, hoping to avoid it. But his newly formed lungs begged to be supplied, and he was unable to keep from gasping for another rush of oxygen.

Immediately he choked and coughed, tears budding at the corners of his eyes. His body jerked, the makeshift nest of garbage jabbing harder into his bones.

Crrrrreak!

Above him, slivers of light shot through the opening ceiling. He closed his stinging eyes, bombarded by the beam of silver bulbs.

"What the hell?" spoke a tired, hoarse voice.

One eye cracked open; another man's silhouette loomed above, blocking the lights and granting him some much-needed relief. But red, white and black blurred his sight, making it impossible to spot any distinctive features on the Good Samaritan.

"Here, son, grab my hand." A long, knob-knuckled hand came down from the light, open for the taking. But with his body trapped beneath debris and his muscles defying his orders to Grab it! Grab it! he was stuck.

"Damn, hold on a second."

The stranger backed away, leaving him to squint and groan at the lights.

Then it got silent. Too silent. No sign to indicate that the man was coming back.

He panted, struck with panic. Wanting nothing more than to claw at his chest where invisible weights were pressing it down. How was he to escape? He was too weak to move!

Fortunately, before he could lose his head, the stranger came back, suspending his entire upper body into the darkness to remove the garbage holding his laden body captive.

"I'mma get you out now, son. Don't you worry."

It was both a blessing and a curse when those bony, calloused hands got a good grip on his arms and tore him free from the garbage. He groaned at the pain, his upper body pulled out first, followed by his lower extremities.

Grunting, the stranger managed to drag him out and gently put him on the pavement, propping him up against the dumpster.

They coughed, catching their breath.

"Fuck, man, you was really stuck in there," grumbled his savior, an elder black male. He turned and faced him, fixing his hat before scratching his scraggly, white beard. "You alright now, son?"