Words By Whittall

  I float in an out of consciousness. Not new. Don’t recognize my surroundings. Also, not new. The scent of fresh cut grass and a breeze to my right, but not my left. Must be an open window. I’m lying flat. Must be on a bed. Not enough energy to raise my head, so I start with an easy one. My right hand. Oh shit. I’m tied down again. The bed’s plastic. Another hospital. That realization jolts me just enough to raise my head. The room is like fog, dull and fuzzy-coloured. Through the window I see bright grass and trees. Low sun blazes across blue mountains in the distance. Alberta? BC? Are the Rockies blue? No snow caps. Perhaps down south, somewhere warm? The breeze is cool. The itching starts. Shit. I look to the night stand on my left. Cup, pitcher and bowl of fruit. All plastic. Nothing to cut through the restraints or use as a weapon. The clock radio might have promise. I let that percolate while I search for meds. Nothing. The pitcher drips with condensation. There’s water