Breakfast
After nearly a week of comatose melancholy, words were finally starting to come back. Words that Soren could speak out loud, that is. Like they had since he was very young, words flooded his mind, but this morning the unshakable grip of cognition felt less like being trapped under a waterfall of confusion and more like a fire hose, piercing through his cerebellum in the form of a pulsing, white-hot migraine. He had pieced together a rudimentary schedule for the days in his strange new home, and knew breakfast would be somewhere if he could remember where to go or who to ask. A brief sliver of deja vu like recognition triggered in his mind at the prospects of orange juice with the meal. He began fantasizing about pancakes, butter, syrup, bacon, scrambled eggs... for a blissful four seconds. Nasuea struck heavy, like a customized, personalized earthquake. The epicenter lie deep beneath the scars across his lower abdomen, within the Frankensteinian contraption replacing his large intestine. But pain was familiar, and experience had shown that pain could be waited out. In the hospital, after the surgery, he learned how to block it out by focusing on making it to the next meal. Soren had withstood far worse that the agony he was in now, and if God wasn't going to allow him to end his life, then he was going to have to keep crawling ahead. Breakfast was the next meal. Wincing, he got out of bed and made his way down the hall, looking for anybody who could help him with the only fucking thing that mattered. Breakfast.
