When I was 13-years old, my older cousin and I got bored while my parents went out with their friends each weekend. So we decided to teach each other how to drive with my dad’s stick shift Chevy Nova, circa 1981. Yes, I said 13-years old. And yes, I said stick shift.
The need to slow her breathing is detrimental and as vital as silencing her pounding heart. Slowly her eyelids fall shut, and she thrusts all her focus to her core, digging for strength and courage she knew was in her somewhere. She just needed some damn time. No time now to figure out what this means for her and what could be gone. Her focus lands now on her slow, steady, deep breaths.
In, out. In and count to ten. Out till there is nothing left to push out. Repeat. Smell the flower, blow out the candle. Smell the flower. [Deep breath in]. Blow out the candle. [Slow breath out].
Simple. Repeat. Count. Count again. Repeat.
Her breath slows, and she barely hears her chest. Finally, she feels centered. Grounded. Her end game was clear: find the others that know about her and if they were in fact, just like her, figure out how difficult destroying them may be.
The last breath she held dear in her lungs sped out of her chest as she heard them coming. Go time.