It all didn’t make any sense to him. He felt fine. There really wasn’t any reason not to move about, and he was bored. A person can only sleep and watch TV for so long. And the longer he spent in bed, the more he thought about the circumstances that brought him to where he was.
Most people didn’t believe it when they were told about what had happened. He was always so careful, and he took so few risks. When he finally did venture out of his little sphere of protection, he paid the price he always feared that he would have to pay.
He half expected himself to regret the decision and cocoon himself again. If you spend your whole life being cautious and the very thing that instinct tells you not to do bites you in the head, then you do have a right to become cynical and unforgiving.
Surprisingly, he didn’t. He didn’t feel sorry, and actually believed himself when he said that the entire ordeal was worth it. But whatever positive thoughts he could glean didn’t make him any less annoyed at being stuck in bed. He checked himself over again. He had done that about a million times already, and he could never see the wound that the doctors said would burst open if he got out of bed. As much as he had faith in modern medicine, he was starting to think that the doctor didn’t really know what he was doing. He had read his fair share of literature on human anatomy, and the doctor’s orders didn’t make any sense to him.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He pulled off the sheets that covered him and shuffled to the edge of the bed. It was at that point that he heard the doctor’s deep voice in his head. It was clinical and emotionless as always. “I’ve told you more than once. You are not ready. I spent a lot of time patching you up. I’d hate to go back to square one again.”
“I can’t stay any longer, doc. I’m healed already. I’ll be fine.”
He could almost hear the doctor roll his eyes. “Everybody is a doctor nowadays. To do this is a risk, and to warn you is my job. I have already done that. I wish you good luck.” The voice faded away.
He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Nothing happened. So far so good. Sliding across the bed sheet, he moved ever so slowly towards the floor. His toes touched the floor. Still nothing happened.
Gaining confidence, he applied his weight onto his foot, fully expecting his legs to be able to support his weight. They did, but he certainly didn’t count on his closed wound across the stomach splitting open.
The pain was back. If he wasn’t already gutted, the pain would have gutted him. He couldn’t quite think of an analogy that would accurately describe the white hot burning on his abdomen. Slowly, he curled himself up into a ball, screaming an agony as the severed muscles contracted. He wanted to die at that point.
Just as he was about to pass out, the door slid open and the doctor entered with the rest of his medical team. The doctor looked at him for two seconds, shook his head and sighed his disapproving sigh. “Bloody idiot. I told him. No one ever listens.”
At the doctor’s signal, the medical team hoisted him back onto the bed and started working on fix him.
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