- "To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;" -
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Sickness
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The room stopped spinning.
Formerly rushes of blurs came into focus as his eyes fluttered open. Broken glass and what was left of tea laid out before him, sprawled across the floor.
'Fantastic.' he sighed. 'It happened again.'
He scrunched up his face slightly as he slowly pushed himself off of his short-haired now tea stained carpet. Step by step, he regained the feelings in his legs, stood up, and wobbled over to the nearest thing for support. His arms grappled onto the edge of his sofa, and sighed softly.
His friends had warned him about this. It was unfortunate for him that he lost consciousness in the company of his two closest comrades. It was only natural that they were worried. "You should rest" and, "You should see a doctor" along with it's similar phrases of concern wafted around in the air, all the while helping him up, and laying him down on a chair. His friends had never seen him do anything sickly but cough from a 24 hour cold, so seeing him in such weak conditions rose a state of awareness in them. Their trepidation was ignored as he always reassured them with a little joke he told himself;
"Gentleman, please. I'm fine. I have no reason to see a doctor unless I lose the feelings in my legs."
Beaten by his own statement, that is exactly what happened. His legs were weak, a stinging numbness spiked up and down his muscles. The feeling wasn't exactly pleasant, as was the splitting headache which was an unwelcome added bonus.
Grasping his head in a gentle but firm grip, he sighed melancholily and eased down onto the soft scarlet fabric of his sofa chair. Leaning his head slightly backward, he took a deep breath. This had been going for nearly a month now. His daughter's birthday was nearing soon, and this act of his had become routine. Pass out. Wake up. Lie. And go about his merry way.
He never bothered with modernized medicine, it was far to trivial, and few could be trusted nowadays. He always figured it would simply fade away in a day or two. Clearly, that was not case. He hardly ever visited a doctor, let alone a hospital. In fact, the last time he even remembered going to the hospital was during the birth of his daughter, and when his daughter got sick at a young age, mind you. This was all very long ago.
After all, he was normally a very healthy man, so this sudden illness was foreign territory to him. His bones ached, his body was sore, and his mind was a tangled web of thorns. He didn't have any idea on what was wrong with him, and he knew he couldn't keep this act of his up any longer.
He sighed heavily and forced himself off of the comforts of his chair. His knees immediately buckled from under him, and managed to catch himself on the chair's armrest, only barely. His entire body fought against him, and felt as if he was carrying himself twenty times his usual weight on his back. Slowly he stood up, stumbling bit by bit until he reached the mess he accidentally made and slouched down.
The pieces of broken glass were scooped up, and he used a stray rag to absorb the fallen tea. Joints strained as he grunted, straightening up his back, and treaded toward the kitchen. The trash can lid popped open, and the shards of broken light were thrown away. He tossed the rag into the sink, and washed his hands soon after.
Sighing, he sat down at the table; cell and phonebook in hand. 'To call, or not to call…'
Orpheus glared at the busy sun touched pages of the phone book for two hours before finally closing it.
He slid the heavy tome across the table.
The phone in his hands vibrated soon after.