My Last Breath Was An Apology

"I floated suspended in the damp, heavy air, looking down at my own body crumpled in the dirt. My chest ached with a phantom tightness, but more than anything, my heart swelled with a profound, suffocating guilt toward my mother. I’ve embarrassed her again, I thought. Just like always. It all started with the eight-mile weighted ruck march. My mother was the Company Commander of our grueling advanced training regiment. To dispel any whispers of nepotism, she insisted that I—despite my documented, severe asthma—participate in the field exercise. I had a forty-pound tactical pack strapped to my shoulders. With every step I dragged forward, it felt like swallowing broken glass. I had to stop and gasp for air just to keep moving. By the halfway point, the edges of my vision were blurring into dark vignettes. I couldn't hold on anymore. I reached into my cargo pocket for my rescue inhaler, just needing one quick burst of albuterol to open my screaming lungs."