It felt good to drink coffee. It was a simple pleasure, but not one he had the satisfaction of enjoying for what seemed like forever. He twisted the mug gingerly in his left hand; the right one still encased in the cast he has grown to loathe entirely. But he didn't want to think about the cast at that moment, or what it represented. He just wanted to enjoy his coffee.
He had gotten pretty good juggling items with his left hand, but he had yet to master it. He silently cursed simple things, like combing his hair(on the rare occasions that he did), or brushing his teeth, or even the act of signing his own name. He first was amused by his own failed attempt of writing his own name with his left hand. Pam had said it was "cute," and that it reminded her of notes she used to get from her 8 year old boyfriend in elementary.
Jim pushed the mug to his lips and gulped a mouth full of the dark liquid. It was still far too hot, burning the insides of his mouth and throat as he haphazardly swallowed it. His eyes watered for a moment from the sting of the temperature, but oddly it was a tangible feeling, the burn. It seemed like so much of his life for the last two weeks had been so surreal that any reminders that he was still on this planet was a comfort.
They had released Jim about a week ago, satisfied that the swelling from his concussion wasn't a threat anymore. They more or less patched him up pretty well: a cast for his shattered right hand, some stitches here and there, and lots of pain medication. Jim couldn't get out of the place fast enough, knowing who was laying four rooms down the hallway was a constant reminder of everything he had very nearly lost. . .
Jim's eyes tore away from the coffee as he found the sleeping figure curled up silently on his couch and felt a small pang in his stomach as he gazed at the woman who he had sacrificed so much to protect. Jim felt himself slowly rise from his dining room chair, much slower than he was used to, nursing his broken ribs as he crept into the living room. He did this at every opportunity that he had when she slept, when she slept, he thought sadly, to just look at her, to embed her image into his brain. At first he couldn't help himself, rationalizing that he had to make sure that she was still there, a solid figure he hadn't lost. But during the last week, he felt almost like a man possessed, slightly obsessed with the need to ensure she was safe. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't slate the thirst of anxiety whenever he thought about her.
His eyes guided down Pam's slumber figure; her face almost back to its normal appearance, no longer plagued by bruises and scratches but still drawn non the less. Her hair was pushed back into a lazy ponytail that she had worn since he was discharged from the hospital. He gently smiled, amused by her small frame tented by his overlarge sweatshirt she's grown accustomed to wearing. Jim softly leaned over to pull the blanket from the back of the couch to cover her with when his eyes caught her tennis shoes tucked under her form. Jim's heart ached. She had been wearing her tennis shoes all the time now, even when she slept, as if she had to have them on so she could run away if she needed to.
Jim had made the mistake of trying to pull them off her as she slept the first night they had returned to his apartment. He had done it to make her more comfortable, but she bolted upright, screaming and clawing at him, begging him to keep them on. It was truly frightening to watch her unravel at that point, but he never mentioned her wearing them after that. If it made her feel safe, than what did it matter?
He finished tucking her in, watching her coo sligtly in her sleep when she felt the warmth of the blanket cover her. He smoothed some errant hairs from her face, and, stealing one more glance at her, he padded back into the dining room to finish his lukewarm cup of coffee.