My Sousaphone Player-Personal Narrative

There I was barely able to breath and I look at my watch, 2 minutes done 9 hours left. I thought to myself whoever designed this instrument obviously had a master’s degree in torture. As I scream out the last note of the song I was supposed to be playing, I quickly set down my instrument tasting the spit surrounding my mouth soaked in metal from the mouthpiece. I then meet the feeling of my spine expanding back to normal and my shoulder aching from the relief of the cold brass not yet warmed up. I think to myself, maybe I should have stayed as a trumpet.

Mr. Strike then calls out the next song and I struggle to put my sousaphone back on my shoulders as if my life is on the line. Then the clock before my shoulder muscles give away restarts and my spine contracts again like the gravity on earth has been increased past the G-forces jet pilots train for. Although I start naturally tilting forwards, my back muscles compensate before I feel a sharp pain and I turn around thinking someone has just backstabbed me with a pencil, but no one is there.
Looking down I notice she is one of the shortest people in band, I would guess about 5 feet tall and think, how is she holding this like it’s no problem. I see her unique half-black half-red hair. She looks back at me asking, “Are you ok?” I reply, “I don’t think I’m holding this right,” by letting the weight of the machine push the air right out of my lungs. She responds with, “no, you’re holding it right,” and a cheery smile finding this a little