Cursed Shirts

A girl is choked by her T-shirt. No, not just accidentally smothered, but suffocated ruthlessly by a shirt. And a boy who watched it happen wants to know why.

            I picked absently at the hem of my shirt, slowly unraveling yet another thread. Little pieces of string hung from all parts of the shirt, due to all my nervous pulling (At least I didn't bite my nails). I was boredly tugging at it this time, instead of nervously, but either state was bad news for my old and faithful T-shirt. I was glad my garments couldn't complain about being yanked on all the time.
           My brother was on stage acting in some stupid musical about a forest nymph or something. When I asked my mom about the nymphs, she looked at me with forced patience and said, “Sweetheart, it's Robin Hood, not the Swan Princess.” I was about to tell her the Swan Princess had absolutely zero things to do with nymphs when she told me to be quiet, because my brother was coming onstage. I sighed dramatically, took a five second look at the stage, and then resumed tugging on my shirt with new-found zeal. That's when I noticed the threads weren't in the right place.
               It probably wouldn't have bothered anyone else, but I was fairly meticulous. I had lined them all up neatly so I could judge their lengths, and when I looked down, they were tangled together and looked almost braided.
Weird, I thought, and made them all straight again. I looked up for a moment because someone had coughed loudly in my ear. After giving a nice glare back at them, I looked down to finish lining the strings up. They were all tangled together, again.
               That's when the shirt began to feel tight and itchy, something this T-shirt had never felt like before. I squirmed in place and tugged lightly on the shirt, thinking it was caught around my waist. It didn't loosen, in fact, as I wriggled, it seemed to grow tighter. I breathed in, and my breath got stuck there because the shirt was so tight.
Oh dam oh my- I was afraid now, wondering if someone was pulling a prank on me, or maybe that God or someone was mad because I wasn't watching my brother's dumb play. I tried to tear the shirt off, but to no avail.
               People began to notice, and the cute guy who had been sitting to my right scooted away in a very indiscreet way.
Jerk, I thought. My mom turned to me with a glare on her face, prepared to tell me to sit still, surely. But when she saw my face, she said, “Sweetheart, are you okay?” I must look bad.
         “No..My shirt got all tight and I-” I stopped because I couldn't breath. That's when I really started to panic. “Get it off!” I managed to scream with the air that was left. Everyone's heads snapped right down to where I was, and if the circumstances were different, the synchronized way in which they did it would have made me laugh.  Now, however, I was fighting for breath. My mom had turned to me, trying to help me somehow, but like a snake wrapping around a mouse, the shirt held on tight.
           “Call 911! She can't breath!” Someone screamed, possibly my mother, and all the music of the play crashed to a halt. I tried to tell them it was the shirt, and they only had to get it off, but I couldn't speak, and who had ever heard of a killer T-shirt? They were all trying to use techniques like chest compressions, and some guy said I might have a collapsed lung. Maybe I did, and I was hallucinating about the shirt because my brain wasn't getting enough oxygen. Somewhere deep inside, though, I knew my favorite old T-shirt was trying to kill me.
            I was raggedly trying to suck in air now, wheezing, going into survival mode where nothing matters except
living. My brother's face swam before me, and I thought it was sort of funny that he was dressed like a nymph, and then I was wildly trying to breath again. Anything for air, anything. I prayed and prayed that someone would just get rid of the shirt, but they all seemed focused on getting me breathing, not taking out the source. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I heard myself from far away, gasping and choking. The cute boy was talking, saying, “Someone get her shirt off! It's like, squeezing her!” I didn't think they heard him.
           Someone started mouth-to-mouth, and it was painful when the air hit my lungs. They were being crushed by the shirt, and giving me mouth-to-mouth was only torturing me, prolonging my death. I screamed loudly and almost incomprehensibly, “It's the shirt!” With that last breath, and blacked out.

The End

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