Chapter 5
My face feels like it’s made of plaster when I wake up. It’s Sunday morning and the room swivels a little before settling into a kind of drifting state like an old type-writer sliding to one side before being shoved back into alignment. My throat clicks when I open my mouth because it’s so dry and I roll around until I can reach the half empty bottle of Gatorade beside the bed. The stuff makes me feel sick but that’s as much because my vision is hovering and as it is because it’s warm. I cough a bit, like those people who just throw water in their face after they’ve been travelling through a desert – too much all at once, but not enough all the same. I can see my wet clothes in a heap on the floor and their chlorine stench is everywhere.
Beside the bed is my phone and just seei
