Touch
I can't breathe.
His limbs ached, weak and shaking. Taking a shuddering breath, he groaned and sat up, yanking his blanket and pulling tightly around him.
Pressure… I need…
He heard a soft crackle and hiss and yelped, throwing the remains of the dusty sheet to the ground. It dissolved into ash.
Clawing at his chest, he panted heavily, eyes scanning the room desperately. His chest heaved as he staggered to his desk, dry cracked fingers reaching out. Stumbling, he grasped at the hand he knew would help. The hand that was always there for him. He placed the severed hand on his face and shivered.
This hand held no warmth.
Air.
Father.
I can't…
"Hel...p..." He gasped for breath. Sensei!
He scratched at his throat. Raw almost bleeding, he felt nothing. His hand dropped and he leaned on his chair. Eyes crazed, he searched for the others. He would feel them for sure. Then… then the air would come.
Eyes, dried out long ago, refused to water. Lips, chapped and broken, twisted in a grimace. Nothing. Nothing brought comfort. Hands. Hands. HANDS.
He fell.
White hair slid over his face. Dust danced across the floor, spiraling, mocking evidence of his own hands' betrayal. His eyes slid close, and his body grew limp.
He couldn't touch.
No one could.
No one…