Pneumoconiosis has taken its toll. The Black Lung they call it. Black Death, more like.
My breath is ragged where it used to be strong. I gasp air where I used to draw in entire storms of wind.
I would send it blasting from my mouth, past razor teeth to destroy homes. Straw, sticks, it didn’t matter. Stone too, despite what the stories say; I shattered granite to rubble.
Perhaps it was the dust from the destruction that got into my lungs. My only regret is I didn’t wait until the air cleared before feasting on that luscious pork steak.