Spinning Teacups
First, he could barely turn his head, just managing to crane his eyes toward the bedside table. The delicate curve of a teacup’s handle crept into his peripheral vision. Against the smooth, pure, shining white of the porcelain, everything else seemed grey.
He stared at it for as long as he could before passing out.
Later, the teacup was in a young woman’s hands. She loomed, politely, putting herself into his field of vision.
“Good morning.” Her voice was low. “Don’t try to get up.”
He wanted to reply but found he lacked the strength.
“The last time you tried, you fell and passed out.”
He closed his eyes and tried to recall.
“You’ve been here a long time. Do you remember? If you like, I can tell you about it.”
Could she read his mind? He kept his eyes shut; slowly, the world disappeared.
When he next woke, he tried to turn onto his side, shoulder creaking as he leant his weight on it.
“Be careful.” She was behind him. “You’ll — ” Too late. The effort to move his legs provoked a cold clank of metal against metal. He thought he’d felt his ankle crack but couldn’t distinguish it from the chain and shackle around it. “ — hurt your ankle,” she finished. “You’re on a short leash.”
He lay still, torso turned away from the door, legs and hips still facing up, as she circled the bed.
“It’ll be All Saints’ soon, and then you’ll be free.”
The porcelain shone in her hand.
“Here.” She reached out to help him lift his head. “Have some tea.”
He drank obediently, and then the room spun, and he could no longer remember why he’d wanted to get up in the first place.
