My arms drop back down and into my lap. The agony of keeping it raised for the operation is too much. The solution to my dilemma is obvious; water, I need water to soften the hard crust and wash out my eyes.
My head flops back, resting whilst I regroup and think some more. I have no idea how much time has passed since I was infected. Hours, days? I could have been unconscious for almost any length of time; my weakness tells me that much. If I have any thought of ever leaving this place, I can’t just sit here, rotting away. My eyes have already crusted over and my back feels like rigor mortis has set in. My legs and bum aren’t far behind my back and I have almost become accustomed to the pungent stink of faeces from below.
Am I dead yet? I don’t think so; am I dying from the fucking virus—possibly? If I remain here festering, will I die? Definitely. Definitely, so do something, you useless piece of shit, I tell myself.
You’re blind, decrepit and covered in shit, so what are you going to do? Think, man, how are you going to move forward?
Water is the first thing I need; if I’m going to move forward, I have to be able to see. I need to clean my eyes so that I can open them. I remember, behind the box of syringes, a bottle of water stood on the floor. I concentrate my throbbing head to envisage where I saw the bottle. It was on my right, but it will be out of easy reach. The bottle was behind the box of syringes that I only just managed to stretch to retrieve. My body aches but the pain isn’t as severe as it was before, I don’t think. Perhaps I can stretch further this time; what choice have I got but to try?
My right arm lifts from my side and I immediately think I was wrong about my pain levels. I persist though and force my hand out searching for the bottle. All it touches is fresh air, however. I try to force a smile at the term fresh air when I consider the stench I’m sat in, but my bone-dry mouth protests.
Agony rips up my arm and into my back the longer my hand waves around in mid-air searching, and my arms drop as I’m forced to stop to rest for a moment. I go again, this time forcing my back to move and lean into it, using my left arm to push off from behind, to further my reach. My back cracks and creaks in agony as if it is a rusty old hinge, with every millimetre of movement. Still nothing, but I keep going forward, accepting the pain, my left arm levering me out. I brush something with my fingertips; it has to be the bottle.
My arm stops waving, now knowing where to go; I just need to lean out a bit more to grasp the bottle.
Racked in agony, I force my left arm to push me that little bit further, and it does. It pushes me too far, and my back tries to pull me back in but it spasms, unwilling to cooperate. Slowly, I tip further and further, about to fall; it is inevitable, just as the pain will be when I land. On the way down, I try to grab the bottle, not thinking about the fact that my body might shatter when it hits the hard, tiled floor. My hand doesn’t close quickly enough around the bottle, it knocks it flying. I hear the bottle hit the floor just as I bang into it.
For a second, I think that the fall wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. But then cold, aching, excruciating pain waves up and down me. How many bones have I broken? My right arm tried to catch at least some of my fall; surely it must have shattered?
The right side of my face is flat against the tiles with my right arm stretched out behind my head. In my holster, the handle of my knife below me jams into my ribs. A glugging sound is also coming from behind my head as the knocked-over bottle empties its contents. The top couldn’t have been on it. Just my luck, I think to myself as I lie contorted on the floor, wincing.
To my surprise, my pain levels drop quite quickly. Every part of my body still aches but it isn’t in agony, not by the standards I have become used to. The weight has also been taken off my bum, and I feel the blood start to return to it--a small relief but I’m taking it as a win.
My hand rests on something and I feel around to find a few cellophane packets of what must be food. I reach back and forth, further around, hoping to find another bottle of water. But in amongst the other stuff, there are no more bottles, just more packets and boxes. If only I could open my bloody eyes. I try again to pull my eyelids apart and fail miserably.
Okay, next plan of action, I think to myself lying there and then the obvious answer dawns on me. Situated behind the door of Sir Malcolm’s private bathroom is his shower. It’s virtually next to me. Surely, I can drag myself a few feet to it, reach up and turn on the tap? The thought of a nice warm shower is bliss and nobody could argue that I don’t need or deserve one.
The thought is bliss but there is no chance in hell that when I turn
