Chapter Six
Troy rolled over in his hospital bed and opened one of his eyes, keeping the other closed to block out the bright morning light beaming through the window beside him.
“Troy?” asked a voice from behind him.
He heard the voice, but he didn’t care to distinguish or recognize it. Nor could he muster the energy to roll across the bed and acknowledge it.
“Are you okay?” asked the same voice.
“Ugh,” replied Troy, giving in to his lack of energy with a dreary sound.
Troy closed his opened eye and sighed another groggy moan.
“Troy,” repeated the voice, now more stern than before.
Troy heard the voice’s light, cautious footsteps as they came around the bed’s end, near his feet. They continued as the sounds clapped against the floor towards his head. He felt a warm hand place itself on his forehead. The warm feeling lifted itself away. Troy heard the footsteps again and the opening and closing of drawers. More footsteps. Then an ice-cold sensation took over his face. He felt the moisture leaking through the wet cloth leaking onto his face. Still, he did not care enough to open his eyes. He was senseless, exhausted. He wanted to get out of this agonizing state of pain. He wanted to return to his dreams. He was much bigger, much more important in his dreams. In reality, he was a wounded man recovering in a hospital bed. In his dreams, he was a critical player in a revolutionary movement. He forced himself back to sleep. He didn’t care about reality anymore.
He wanted more.