Breathers Read Online Free PDF

And right now, my memory is telling me I'm pretty much screwed.
    Helen suggests that each of us find a creative way to deal with our feelings of hopelessness, a sort of artistic therapy to cope with the challenges of being one of the undead—like painting or sculpting or writing poetry. The idea is to create something beautiful that transcends our less-than-glamorous existence.
    I used to pen an occasional haiku just to give the right side of my brain some exercise. I don't know if it matters anymore, considering my brain is gradually liquefying, but old habits don't die even when you do.
    So as I'm lying in the Dumpster coated with industrial goo, thinking about immolation and dismemberment and toxic waste, this is the thing of transcendent beauty I come up with:
    shattered life dangles
    a severed voice screams in grief
    i'm rotting inside
    After several minutes of hearing nothing, I finally roll to one side and wipe some of the goo from my eyes so I can look out the open lid. At first all I see is darkness, then I make out the silhouette of what looks like a face peering down into the Dumpster.
    “Randy!”
    I don't know who jumps more—me or Randy. But the silhouette disappears beyond the edge of the Dumpster.
    “What are you doing?” asks the approaching voice.
    “Nothing,” says Randy. “I was just …”
    He must whisper because I can't hear the rest. Seconds later, two silhouettes are looking down at me. One of them raises a long, thin object and then plunges it into the Dumpster.
    “Over there,” says Randy, pointing.
    The probe comes down again, closer this time, barely missing my arm. I think it's a steel rod, or maybe a piece of re-bar. Whatever it is, it's going to do some damage if it strikes home.
    When it comes down again, it plunges into my side, tearing through my clothes and flesh and snapping one of my ribs.
    Definitely rebar. Three-eighths inch. Sharpened by the feel of it.
    It comes down again, catching me in the thigh. The next one misses me, but the one after that pierces my palm and I wonder if this is how Christ felt on the cross.
    While there's no pain, the sensation isn't pleasant. It's more invasive than uncomfortable, with a hint of humiliation.
    If you've never been in a Dumpster coated with industrial waste while someone stabs you with a piece of sharpened re-bar, then you probably wouldn't understand.
    Part of me wants to just let them find me, to let this be done with so this existence can come to an end and I can be free of the memories that still tuck me into bed at night and greet me at dawn, sitting on my chest like a weight that never leaves. Except even in undeath, when faced w it h your potential demise, there's a self-preservation instinct that kicks in, that compels you to fight for your survival, that won't allow you to just give up. Besides, if I'm going to be destroyed, it's not going to be at the hands of a bunch of drunk college boys.
    The next stab lands inches from my head. Just as the rod raises again for another go, a voice in the distance shouts out, “We got one!”
    The silhouettes turn and vanish, their footsteps racing away. I lay there a moment, oddly thankful to still be undead, then pull myself up to the edge of the Dumpster and peer out into the night, hoping that whoever they found isn't Rita.
    In the wash of a parking lot light more than a hundred yards away, several figures are moving in rapid motion, swinging objects, beating on another figure struggling to get away. At first I think it's Jerry and I'm surprised to discover how much that thought depresses me. Then the figure shouts out with a voice that sounds like a water bong.
    “Help! Somebody help!”
    The frat boys pounce on Walter, drive him to the ground, and beat on him. One of his arms is ripped away. Then the other. Within minutes, he's dismembered and dragged off to the fading hoots and hollers of drunk fraternity boys. No one comes to his aid. Not the police. Not the animal control. Not any