A/N: This is a quick short story I wrote for an English class. Any critique is more than welcome. Thanks in advance for any review you can provide.

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Breathe In. Breathe Out.

My feet slap against the ground. The sound is loud and angry – violent even.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It's hard to think straight. The pain in my shoulder burns hot and wet, which feels unfair – shouldn't the wetness negate the burning? No such luck. Hot, wet blood drips out of the hole in my shoulder, staining my white sundress red.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathing is even harder than thinking. Each breath scalds my throat, and none of these excruciating gasps satisfy my thirst for oxygen. Of course, there probably isn't much oxygen in this filthy atmosphere anyway. Tonight Mumbai's grimy air is even harder to swallow than usual.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I have to concentrate on each inhalation, each exhalation. Breathing hurts so much that if I don't focus on it and force myself to move my lungs, I won't do it. I think back to all those effortless, thoughtless breaths I've taken in my life and I'm filled with longing. If I could laugh right now, I would, because it's so strange that what I want most in this world is air. Of course, I would settle for no air, too; I'd be perfectly content to drop down and die right here, except I'm afraid it would take too long to slip away, and I don't want the people chasing me to catch up while I'm still breathing.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Now that I'm thinking about the pursuing men, I become aware of Gupta's men shouting behind me. They're catching up. If I wasn't already pushing myself to run as fast I can, I'd speed up right now. As it is, this is going to have to be good enough.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I'm shoving through people now; I guess I'm on one of the main streets. This pain is too disorienting for me to figure out exactly where I am. Again, I want to laugh even though I know that I can't. How funny is it that I'm as lost as a bumbling tourist in my own hometown?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

As I shove past people, I leave bright red stamps on them, but I'm moving fast and the gasps I hear as they notice the bloodstains come from behind me. None of them try to catch up with me, although they probably couldn't anyways. I'm not exactly being polite as I make my way through the crowd with all haste.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I find myself on the ground. I don't remember how that happened; I must've fallen. On either side of me, two big dumpsters hide me from view. I guess that I've fallen between two of the many trash receptecals lining Mumbai's filthy streets, but I don't give much thought to my location. It smells horrible. It's funny that I can even notice things like smell right now, but that's what flashes through my mind – it smells worse than sewage.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I feel myself blacking out again. This time, though, it feels like falling asleep.

And as I sleep, I remember.

I'm five years old, and I'm a toddler playing in my backyard in Oshiwara. My father isn't home. Mother is, though, and she's playing with me. She found some sort of creepy-crawly and is chasing me around the yard with the creature in her hand. I'm laughing and screaming when the cook's boy, Tarun Kakkur, comes out. Mother chases us both now, both of us squealing. Tarun is faster than me, and smarter too. He squeezes through the bushes in spaces too small for my mother to follow. I may not have been smart enough to come up with that strategy myself, but I'm smart enough to follow him.

Sometimes it feels like I spent the rest of my life following him.

I'm nine now. Tarun is arguing with me. We always argue, but we like it that way. I can't remember what we were arguing about, but something he said upset me, and I started crying. I've always cried easily, and Tarun has always tried to comfort me. This time is no different – he sits down beside me, throws an arm around my shoulders, and apologizes repeatedly. He hates making me cry. He keeps saying things like, "I'm sorry, it's okay, are you alright?" This is how my father finds us. I didn't even know he was in Mumbai. He's yelling and screaming and it takes me a while to understand what's happening. Then he grabs Tarun by the shirt and throws him. As Tarun stands up, my father's fist finds his face. Now I'm screaming too. I yank on my father's arm and he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. As he carries me into the house, I beat my tiny, useless fists on his back. He drops me roughly on the couch and goes back outside, locking the door behind him.

The next day a new cook arrives. This one has no children.

I'm thirteen. My father is yelling at me. They caught me coming home after I snuck out to see Tarun. It was only a week after his father was dismissed that Tarun found his way back to my backyard. He'd still had two black eyes from my father's beating. It was dangerous for him to come back, and I cried when I saw him. I haven't let him come back again – the thought of my father catching him scares me too much – so instead I visit him at his father's little room. Mr. Kakkur likes me; every time I visit, he says how good it is of me to come and that it's such a pleasure for a woman's beauty to grace his little home. Then – every time – he winks at Tarun. I blush every time.

Earlier in the morning, Tarun ranted about Jai Gupta, the corrupt police chief who will turn a blind eye to anything for the right price. Apparently, Tarun's little neighbor was shot in Gupta's presence yesterday, and Gupta stood by and did nothing. While Tarun ranted about honor and responsibility, I cried for the dead little girl. She was tiny and sweet, and she always called me "Miss Johar." Tarun saw me crying, and he hugged me close, just like he always does.

As my father yells now, I'm crying again, but Tarun isn't here. Mother stands with an arm stretched out hesitantly, like she wants to comfort me. She doesn't, though, and I don't blame her – my father can be terrifying. I'm getting used to this, though; they catch me sneaking in or out about once a month, and they think that's all the more often I leave. They'd never guess who I was sneaking out to see. I'm okay with this arrangement, though, and I'm not about to tell them that I get out to see Tarun almost every day.

Now I'm fourteen. Tarun is teaching me how to handle a gun – he's worried about me again and says that I need to know how to protect myself. I don't know where he got the gun – stole it, probably.

That evening, my father hosts a dinner for some important people. Mother and I where refined and fashionable dresses and smile sweetly so that my father can show us off. I'm nodding and politely laughing at something some egocentric CEO is saying when I spot the murderer across the room.

Jai Gupta.

Carefully, I draw the CEO's attention to Gupta. The CEO frowns, looks where I motion, mutters that "the bastard must've bought himself a promotion," and then returns the conversation to himself. I nod, smile, and laugh in the right places, but my mind is on Gupta.

The next day, I go to Tarun's dad's place. Tarun has some friends there who he introduces to me, and then the boys return to their conversation. They're complaining about Gupta. I mention what I learned about him last night, and Tarun's friends' eyes light up. They don't comment, though. As I leave, I hear them arguing with Tarun.

It's about a week later. I sneak out to Tarun's and find no one there. As I stand there, wondering where Tarun and Mr. Kakkur are, Tarun's friends walk in. They stop talking when they see me, and when I ask them where Tarun is, they exchange looks. The big one faces me and says there was a run-in with Gupta and Tarun is dead.

He's dead.

I don't remember what happened next, but I suddenly realize that I'm walking home with Tarun's gun. Glancing about me nervously, I quickly hide the weapon and smuggle it to my room. Thankfully, this is one of the times my parents don't see me come in. I set the gun on my bed, and then I laugh because it looks so funny to have a lethal weapon sitting on my flowery pink bedspread; I think I might be hysterical. I hide the gun under my pillow.

The thought of the hidden weapon makes me nervous all day, and when my father announces that we'll be attending a dinner tomorrow night, my heart stops. Mother asks where, and my father gives the name of some prominent politician. It takes all my courage, but – with a stuttering voice – I manage to ask who will be attending. Even though I'm listening for it, I almost miss Jai Gupta's name.

Jai Gupta.

My father is waiting for a response, but my mouth doesn't seem to be working. Mother comments on one of the names and asks if that was the name of the CEO I talked to last week. I nod and make some polite, ambiguous comment about him even though I never did catch the egotist's name.

My motions are robotic the next evening as I slip into in my lacy white sundress. I'm thankful that large purses are in style as I tuck Tarun's handgun into my white bag.

I don't remember the moment I shot and killed Gupta, and I don't remember the moment when someone else shot me. All I remember is screaming, chaos, and hot, burning pain.

And running – I remember running.

Apparently, my mind is satisfied now that my trip down memory lane has caught up to the present, because I wake up. Tarun is standing over me.

Tarun.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

My first feeling is pure, unfettered, unthinking joy. Then I realize that if I'm seeing Tarun, I must be dead too, and I'm confused, because I hadn't expected to end up in the same place as him; after all, Tarun never killed a man.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Then, once the shock of seeing Tarun wears off, I remember the wound in my shoulder, and I realize the pain is still there. If I'm dead, that ought to be gone, as far as my opinion is concerned. Of course, no one has ever listened to my opinion before – except for Tarun, of course.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Tarun is yelling something as he crouches down over me. I think he's screaming my name, but my ears don't seem to be working right, so I'm not sure. The sight of him must have made me cry, because I feel something hot and wet on my cheeks – either that, or I got blood on my face. It must be the first one, though, because Tarun embraces me tightly, just like he always does when I cry.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He's talking to me, but I'm almost gone, and I can't hear what he's saying. I think he's talking about "lying, manipulative traitors" and I assume that he's referring to his friends, but I don't care about them. I'm trying to keep my mind focused so I can do the one thing I want to do before it's too late. I feel like a ghost already – I'm still caught in this world, but I can't effect any change in it. However, there's one last thing I can do, and right now it feels like the most important task of my life.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Tarun," I say, my voice weak and scratchy, almost too low to be heard. He hears, though – he hears my last word. He pulls back to look in my eyes, still clutching my shoulders. The one with the gunshot wound doesn't even hurt anymore, almost like his touch has leeched the pain out, although I know it's just because it's almost over.

Breathe in.

He says my name, and it's the last thing I hear before I shut my eyes.

Breathe out.

I don't open them again, but as I drift in swirling, dark nothingness, I hear the echo of his last word to me.