Friday, 17 October 2008
The world looked very different to him when he woke up that day.
Everything was blurred, everything fuzzed. He looked around his own bedroom like it was a strange chapel, the light as if stained by the sacred glass of the windows and bathing everything in a rich glow.
He reached for a glass of water. He felt his thick fingers shunt it clumsily, nauseously it fell and smashed and spilled somewhere on the beige floor. At least he could still tell what colour the floor was.
He sat up and tried to think what last night had meant to him. He remembered little though he was sure his head met another object at force. Possibly the floor, or something overhead that stood firm when he tried to stand up.
He tried to stand up. It was so difficult, swimming in the strange floating colours of the new room. It was as though it had been repainted overnight in a fractious blend of rolling watercolours, and as he looked around he felt ill with the strain of looking.
He took a step and his back arched in a sharp response to pain. His foot hurt so he collapsed to his knees to save the pain in his foot. As his legs hit the floor they were gashed deeply by the remaining shards of the broken glass. He remembered this almost as soon as his hands felt the damp carpet. He screamed and then sobbed, but he knew no-one would come.
He just lay there in a tight ball, revelling in the pain, closing his eyes to the blindness.