Getting stabbed hurts very much, and then if you are lucky, surprisingly very little. The thin knife hadn’t even chipped a rib, but had slipped the hairsbreadths between his vital abdominal organs, quick in, smooth out. Despite this, and the doctors telling him so, Lark did not feel lucky.
Instead, Lark emerged from each painkiller induced haze with distinct unease. This anxiety was only sharpened by the indignity of his scratchy hospital gown and the grating noise emanating from the room’s television. Lark suspected the daytime programming was switched on by vindictive nurses while he slept, retribution for his own unquiet displeasure at being in their charge.
It wasn’t enough that strangers had invaded Lark’s home, attempted to kill Lark’s wife, whom he was fairly attached to, and placed him bedridden at the whim of humorless doughy-faced nurse staff. Lark wished any of that had been the strangest thing to happen this week. No, it was the conversations after those events, which left him wondering how much he really knew about anything.
As they weaned him off the drugs, the hours between his visitors stretched longer and the malaise pressed more acutely with every solitary minute. In these gaping moments, left with nothing but the long abandoned book in his lap and the pallid green wall across from his bed, Lark began to wonder once again how much of what happened he’d built up around himself, fueled by an admittedly impressive amount of self-importance.
In those long nighttime hours, Lark came to the conclusion that either he or the world was dangerously unstable. Neither was good, but one was decidedly better for him.
Lark sniffed at the empty wall and pressed a palm to his bandaged side. Tomorrow he’d speak to Arianna about finding him a hotel. He’d still be alone with his thoughts, but free from daytime television.