Flux

scratch it with his other foot but it didn’t help and only bought more pain. He’d been told that before long physiotherapy would commence and before he knew it, his wasted muscles and broken bones would once again start to function as they should. Soon is a relative term.

    Alone with his thoughts, his mind turned to the incident with Bert. What had made him turn like that? The old man was supposedly too ill and too weak to get out of bed alone, never mind try to strangle his co-habitant on the ward; still, he had. The words he spoke had struck a chord, Iain had heard them somewhere before and they struck fear into his very core. He couldn’t remember where or when, their significance remained just out of reach, eluding capture.
    With the door closed, the room was quiet. Occasional muffled activity came to his ears from the corridor outside, too faint to overhear any conversations. Alone with only his thoughts for stimulation, Iain’s mind started to work overtime. He tried to remember the accident, thinking that at least some small detail should come to him, but it didn’t. He imagined himself lying broken and bloodied on the ground and wondered whether anyone from work had seen him in that state. He also tried hard to recall whether he remembered anything of his time unconscious, sure that something had filled that gap in his life but again, memories eluded him.
    There was no clock on the wall in this room and Iain couldn’t work out whether it was a blessing or a curse, his mind flitted between the two. He’d lost all sense of time but didn’t really mind. For a person who is stuck and unable to move or communicate, time is irrelevant. Having no idea how long he’d lain in the room, there came a quick knock on the door. It opened without the visitor waiting for a response.
    “Hi, I’m Dr Goodman,” the visitor announced, “and how are you feeling today?”
    Iain wanted to say, “Like crap” but could only manage a muffled grunt and a small nod of his head in her direction.
    “Good.” She replied briskly, her attention already on the charts which hung at the foot of his bed.
    Iain didn’t like her, she seemed to be going through the motions with him, too busy or too uninterested to really care. He supposed that she was only doing her job, but all the same he wouldn’t have minded a little more sympathy.
    Without looking up, she continued to speak; “I understand that one of my colleagues has already filled you in on what happened to you, and the course of treatment you’ll be receiving?”
    Iain nodded again.
    “OK, excellent. Well, I just want to run a few more tests if that’s alright?” She wasn’t really asking Iain thought, it was what she was going to do and didn’t bother to wait for a reply before disappearing through the door, this time leaving it open. She returned a few moments later with her machine, the one with lots of wires. “This might feel a little bit cold,” she said, squeezing some kind of jelly from a tube and rubbing it onto Iain’s forehead. “This machine will measure your brain activity, I just want to keep an eye on whether everything is working ok up there that's all, nothing to worry about.”
    He was worried. For her to be taking measurements from his brain, logic told him, meant that she must suspect something to be the matter. He would have asked but all he could do was look at her questioningly, she didn't notice his enquiring gaze.
    The electrodes were once again attached to Iain’s head.
    “Now, I need you to stay still.”
    Iain thought that Dr Goodman might be a little stupid; there really wasn’t any need to tell him that, he wasn’t really going to dance a jig now was he? What he really wanted was for her to find out somehow if there was any way in which she could make him more comfortable, like getting rid of the damned itch, but she didn’t.
    “Well, if that’s all, I’ll come back later and see how you’re getting on.”
    It must have been visiting time because as Rebecca Goodman left the room, Gary and Dave, who had been patiently waiting outside, entered. They were giggling between themselves at some private joke.
    “How you doing?” Dave asked.
    Iain shrugged his shoulders, only a little as it was all he could muster without hurting.
    “It’s good to see you awake,” then, “what the fuck is that on your head?” Gary asked, indicating towards the tangle of wires.
    Again, Iain just shrugged.
    “Anyway,” he continued,