Consciousness comes and goes. He comes and goes. At times his words are soothing, at others apologetic. Once or twice, he helps me sit up. He feeds me soup. He even brushes my teeth. In my more lucid moments, he helps me to the bathroom. Whenever I find I am rising into full waking awareness, I feel the needle prick, and I’m gone again, drifting away into a sickly fog.
I have no concept of time, although I do have a sense that days are passing. After what feels like forever has gone by, I regain enough consciousness to notice a light shining brightly on me.
Daylight?
He pulls me up.
It is my table lamp.
My eyes adjust to the black beyond its reach. My head swims. He holds a cup to my lips and tells me to drink.
It is coffee, warm and strong.
Clarity returns, slow at first. Yet there
