Nothing. Whiteness. And the hum of a motor. I can see and hear, but when I try to move, nothing. Not restrained, just no muscles. Not even to call out. Without larynx and tongue, the shout remains trapped within me. Am I dead?
Shadows move across the ceiling. People in the room.
Helen’s voice. “How is he doctor?”
“A vegetative state. He may come out of it, he may not.”
The scream inside me has nowhere to go. It may live in me for ever.
Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise on point of view