“My leg hurts”.

It’s the straps.  Too tight.

“I don’t feel good.”

Chemicals.  It’ll all be okay.

Everything was blurry.  He remembered looking through the blue blanket, hiding from monsters, flashlight throwing shadows around the room.  Watching the sun go down as the room became darker.  Quieter.

Colder.

He would call for his parents then- yell, cry, beg.  When they came (they always came) he could feel their anger, their disappointment burning on his cheeks.

He saw shadows, shuffling through the haze.

Waiting.

He could hear them breathing.

There was a light, yellow floating through the murk.  Window?

They mentioned a window.

The light was fading, shadows dim against the sickly smear.

 They were watching.

He felt his heart pounding in his chest.

Someone was talking- he heard the voice beside him, past him, into the window.

The shadows were quiescent.

“My stomach hurts.”

I know.

His eyes stung.  He wasn’t sure why. Couldn’t feel any tears.  He tried to wipe his face but couldn’t find his hands.

“I did the best I could.”

No . . . no you didn’t.  But it doesn’t matter now.