It was still dark when the pain woke me up. I can tell you that I have never felt anything like it, ever. A red-hot poker shoved down my spine, only a thousand times worse.

I was shaking, a cold sweat broke out. I clawed at the night table, but the painkillers weren't there. They were in the kitchen. At that moment the kitchen may as well have been on Mars. But that's where the pills were. That's where the relief for my agony was. I had to get there.

Standing up straight was impossible. I shuffled to the doorway like a feeble invalid. By the time I got there my back muscles seized up, as if I wasn't deep enough in a pain-wracked hell already. All I could do was lean in the doorframe, panting and dripping sweat, and wait for my back to loosen up a little. The kitchen was around the corner, fifteen feet away. That knowledge was the only thing keeping me from dying on the spot.

Somehow I made it and was a tad too distracted to be proud of myself for finding the lightswitch. The pills were right there, but between the child-proof cap and my sweaty hands I couldn't get the fucking bottle open. I started to cry. The cap flew off and pills scattered everywhere. I tried to chew them and choked. Trying to get some water, the glass slipped and shattered on the floor.

I was reaching for another glass when I heard a voice behind me: "What the hell...?"

A hand grabbed me and turned me around. "Jimmy, my God," Greg said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Pain...Jesus, the pain...," I gasped, trying not to collapse all over the broken shards.

Finally a half dozen painkillers were in my mouth. Greg had to hold the glass of water because my hands were shaking too much.

"C'mon, I need you to walk with me. I can't carry you," he said. The spare bedroom was a hundred miles away. My back seized up again. I don't know how I made it. All I remember was hitting the bed.

Still shaking, the pain squeezing me like a vice. Through the haze there was something cool touching my face. It was a washcloth. Greg was telling me to relax. I ignored him and tried to concentrate on the wonderful cool something as the vice took it's time and eventually loosened its hold. I was still hurting, but at least it had settled down to a level where I didn't wish I was dead.

"Jimmy."

"What?" I muttered. I didn't feel like talking.

"Why didn't you call out? I would have heard you."

He was right. It hardly mattered now and I could care less. "The pain...it was unreal." My tee shirt was soaked through with sweat. I just wanted to sleep and forget everything.

"I'm staying home today," he said. "I can't leave you like this."

"Fine."

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible."

My friend snickered a little. "Get some rest. I need to clean up a mess in the kitchen."

Pain was still trying to squeeze every last drop out of me. It was a long while before I could drift off. Even then I was still waking up every hour. Around eleven I ate six more painkillers and the anti-viral and finally settled into something that could be called sleep.

I woke up with a cry. Bad dreams. My back still hurt.

Greg materialized in the room. "Jimmy..."

"I'm okay." Hardly. I probably looked like death warmed over. I was all sweaty again.

The damp washcloth was back. I welcomed it with open arms.

"It's after four. You need to eat something. Don't move." He left before I could protest. The washcloth stayed my forehead.

Five minutes later he reappeared with a plate of toast balanced on a glass of ginger ale.

"Feeling any better?" he asked as he watched me eat.

"I'm not in agony so I suppose I have to say yes." The toast was too dry and tasted like cardboard. I ate it anyway.

"That should be the worst of it," Greg said, though he didn't sound totally convinced. Or maybe I was just hearing things.

"There's nothing that could make it any worse," I scowled, thinking of the screaming pain that woke me up in the middle of the night.

"You're probably right. Finish your toast." There was one more piece. I finished it and kept it down. Eating was a chore. I felt a million years old.

"Here." Four more painkillers and the anti-viral were in my hand. They joined the toast. "Go to sleep. If you need anything, you call me. If I find you in the kitchen again, the shingles isn't going to be the only thing causing you pain."

He stood up, gathered up the dishes and limped out of the room.