He wants to hit something, to hurt someone. To grab a hold and crush them and scream at the top of his lungs, to feel something, anything, other then this nothingness.
Its a helpless anger that makes him feel sick. It crawls about under his skin and gnaws at his bones, whispering constant reminders that he is broken now, he can't hurt anyone because he can't even hurt himself. Even laying down he is dizzy, ears ringing through water muffling the world around him.
Grandma is talking happily, pleased he is awake. Gordon had come in earlier, but left quickly to take Alan home when he found it too awkward. Grandma never stopped talking though, he wasn't listening though. He was glaring at the ceiling doing his best not to scream or cry, because no matter how hard he tried he couldn't grasp hold of the sheets, and now she was getting quieter while that muffled ringing grew, causing the pulsing pain behind his eyes while he cursed an itch he couldn't scratch.
You needed hands for that you see.
You need to be whole for that.