choking

Donald can’t breathe. He’s grabbing at his throat, stretching his neck, trying without success to clear an airway. Donald is close to death. His face is purple and blue, his eyes are bloodshot, tears running down his cheek. He’s smiling.

Donald’s door is shut and locked and his mother downstairs won’t be calling him for dinner any time soon. On the walls of Donald’s room are posters of comic book heroes, of popular movies. The television is on and the volume is loud. On TV, there are two men in a wrestling ring. The commentator says, “It's pandemonium here.”

Donald tries to speak and all that comes out is a gurgle. His eyes are nearly closed and he's fighting to stay conscious. My grip around his neck tightens. He manages to tap my shoulder and I release.

He coughs and rubs his eyes.

I laugh and say, "My turn."