I is for Injuries
Something cool was dabbed on Godwin’s face. He heard the crackling of wood in a fire, and could just barely smell it. But his eyes would not obey his command to open and look for the flames.
A woman was singing, cooing over him.
He wanted to move, but pain was everywhere and heavy. His body refused to move.
The woman hushed him.
Something sweet touched his lips. He licked at it.
“There you are,” she whispered. “Just a little.”
The male voice carried in from a distance.
“It’s all right, father,” the woman said. “We’re just hurting.”
The smell of cooked meat touched Godwin’s nostrils. Hunger pressed on his stomach. He tried to breathe it in. His lungs strained.
“Some broth?” the man said.
“Let’s try,” she said.
Liquid touched Godwin’s lips again. He struggled to lick it from his lips. His body wouldn’t cooperate.
Water dripped into Godwin’s ear. He realized he was crying. His eyes wouldn’t open. A sound startled him. He realized it was his own moan.
Nothing worked. He was a prisoner in his own body. How would he endure this?