He had a small droplet of spit drooling down his cheek, which he licked back inwards through chapped lips so not to be wasted, temporarily providing relief for the dry and granular feeling in his mouth. He raised his fingers towards his neck and he felt the swelling from the injection. He had a tight nervous feeling in the bottom of his stomach, which he thought likely to be the consequences of the perpetual hormonal surges that had helped keep him alive. However there was enough reason to doubt that it was even still Friday, and considered that a better explanation would be the fact that since late Wednesday night he hadn’t eaten a single thing, and had been drugged at least once, but most likely twice. Pushing himself to his feet he rubbed his head frantically, trying to shift some of the haziness that he felt as he propped himself up first onto his knees and then reluctantly back down onto his backside when he realised that movement at the present moment was less comfortable and more torturous than he had anticipated. He also soon realised that he was wearing a donated shirt, much like hospital wear, and he felt as if he looked somewhere between a doctor and a patient and was grateful for the absence of the congealed blood drenched shirt.
