The Professor's Daughter by Emily Raboteau

Author:Emily Raboteau
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

RESPIRATION

Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click-boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out. Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom.

I see a song. It looks like:

Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out.

That clicking. It looks like train tracks leading into a tunnel. Click clack train track. The rails are rusting. The tracks are splintering. They are old and gray. In between the tracks are weeds and broken bottles. Off to the sides is tall grass coming up from red dirt. Dry grass as far as I can see, fields of it bowing down and standing up again in the wind. The tracks part the grass like hair. They run into the tunnel. The tunnel is a black hole in the side of a mountain. The mountain has knuckles made of rocks. I cannot see over it. Before me, behind me, the train tracks stitch the red ground together.

I think I have been here a long time. It’s hot in this place. I wait for the train to come.

Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out.

That breathing. It looks like the dry grass bending down and standing up and bending down again. It looks like the cloud mass over the mountain, shrugging and changing shape. Hushing across the sky. The sky is gray. The clouds are white. The clouds roll in and out. They look like waves at the ocean shore. The breath moves the clouds and the grass. The grass stands tall. The grass bows down. Who is breathing?

Click click boom. Breathe in. Click click boom. Breathe out.

I see a new sound. Metal sliding on metal. I see a broken playground swing to my left. Two chains drop from a bar held up by other bars. The bars are painted blue. A link in one chain has snapped. The swing dangles in the grass. It is made of dirty canvas.

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