Condemned

25 | Sam

I blink in the dim light of another day.

And then it's gone.

The next time I open my eyes it's pitch black out and my eyes are no help.

The house is in full swing, though. Through sound, I can practically see . . . the cutlery being placed, glasses clinking, the heat and water running, the violin, doors creaking and latching closed, casual footsteps, the occasional voice that is emphatic or displeased enough to be heard above the din.

If I was bored, I might listen in, but I don't have it in me to try this time. All I can focus on—I need to use the bathroom—but I can't move, so, I guess I'll have to wait.

I try to remember why I can't move or remember why I can't remember. Was I drugged?  When? How?

I can't even recall the last thing I do remember, weird or otherwise. It's all miserable, but monotonously so, and nothing stands out. 

Then, before I make any progress, everything shuts down on me. I'm so tired.

I don't reboot until the sun is shining. Morning is just brutal this time. It's a clear, fall, bright sunny day, and what a joy it is to my bleary eyes and pounding head!

The sun earns a point in its favor when it glints off a new development. There's a black splotch on the windowsill and I clumsily zoom in.

My glasses are sitting there.

Ivy found them for me and set them there without my knowledge. Lovely. She basically said I'd be better off blind, and yet here they are.

I do remember something. It comes with a pit of dread, though. There's clearly a lot I've missed.

Maybe Ivy was right. Am I better off not knowing what's going on? Why it feels like I was hit by a bus? And dragged three blocks on bare skin?

I could spend hours trying to debate that with myself, and work in Ivy's undoubtedly self-serving opinion on the matter, but I don't have the time, patience, or mental capacity. I fumble for my glasses, shove them on my face, and crawl to the bathroom for a true emergency, in more than one facet.

Crawl is really an overstatement. It's more like a creep, like I'm the dead coming from the grave.

The bathroom is where I first notice the tape and gauze by my left hip. Whatever is under there, it stings like you wouldn't believe. It's covered and seemingly well-cared for. I don't have the supplies to replace the bandage, so I'm not inclined to mess with it right now.

Once I'm expelling fluid from every opening with blood in the mix, it seems inconsequential anyway.

It's another whole day before I can hobble around on my feet, and it takes a day further to hold down any solid food.

The trays keep arriving while I'm sleeping, nonetheless. They've accumulated in a cluster. It's hard to know if they're ever taken back, what might be fresh, and if they're rearranging the contents just to mess with me.

Guessing probably won't help my stomach settle. The trays aren't improving the smell of my room. That's for sure! And that's not helping anything, either.

When I make a point to stay awake for Prue, Ivy, or whoever's been gracing me with their bland cooking and abysmal service, dinnertime comes and goes. It appears I'm stuck with cold, rubbery chicken and canned vegetables, probably from yesterday or the day before.

It's getting too dark to pick out what might be edible, if anything. What's worse, I'm at a point where I'm actually hungry, and hope to get my body back into a fraction of the shape it was before . . . before. . .