The Bitter Taste of Dying

I pinched his nose, pulled his chin up, and put my mouth onto his. It was a strange, strange sensation. So much different than those plastic dummies we practiced on in 8th grade.
This was a real human fucking being.
His skin was warm. There was yellow shit coming out of his mouth and nose, and it was getting inside of mine, starting to coat the insides of my cheek. I could feel it on the back of my throat. His head was heavier than I anticipated.
That taste is unforgettable. Death tastes bitter, with a texture that falls somewhere between gritty and horrific, staining the memory for good. There’s no going back from it. No way to un-remember it. Once there, it remains. Forever. All the therapy in the world can’t erase it.
This was my uncle. My friend. Dying in my arms.
I pressed my mouth against his, fighting the gag reflex I felt coming as I felt that yellow shit on the back of my tongue, and tried blowing air into his lungs, but I could tell no air was getting through. Whatever was coming out of his mouth was blocking his air passage. I tried putting my finger inside to scoop it out, but couldn’t. When I pulled out yellow shit, more just took its place. Mikey began pumping on his chest, but I knew it was over. Mikey tried to give him mouth-to-mouth as well, with me pumping on Mark’s chest, as if we were the problem.