He spent the day spitting into cups and past his thighs. His feet were cold but his socks were colder. The blankets kept the chill in. He took some tablets and slept, feeling better, but it did not last long. His back ached. He sat with his legs crossed, thinking maybe if he made himself as small as possible, less of him would hurt.
His hood was up and it was never up. He took it down and bounced his palm on his oddly-creased hair. He felt the follicles moving. His scalp hurt, the kind of hurt where you keep on going. He drank cold water because he was too lazy to warm it up. He had no tea, no honey, no lemon. He wasn't sure if his eyes pained him more open or closed. No comfort lasted very long.
He fell asleep on the couch, his head on the armrest. When he woke he was in agony, his neck dented, head throbbing, unbelievable crust in his eyes.
He cried uncontrollably. His walls were down. He was hooted up on pills and tablets and the germs were attacking all his working good parts. He remembered relationships and deaths, insecurities and regrets. He worried about what the next sixty years would be like. Or, if doctors and scientists have their way, the next hundred. He cried himself to sleep, and woke feeling refreshed.
No comments:
Post a Comment