Tuesday is a bad day. He knows it before he's even opened his eyes. It's a reflex, something you know before you know, like yanking your hand back from the stove, or that moment when you first wakes before you remember who you are. Only this morning, instead of memories, it's a shock of pain that takes a moment to arrive, gripping him from hip to knee.
He groans and buries his head back under his pillow, wishing for oblivion.
It doesn't come.
Only comes the pain, getting steadily louder the longer he lies there waiting for it to disappear. Of course it does. It always does.
Eventually, he grasps blindly at the nightstand for the little bottle of pills he only needs to know by feel, not sight. But then, his pinky brushes against the rim and the bottle topples to the floor, pills scattering.
Well, fuck.
He takes a deep breath and forces himself up. His leg doesn't like this much, and it lets him know it.
Then he just. Sits there. Waiting for it to stop spasming around a muscle that's no longer there. He glances at the pen on his beside table and thinks about stabbing it through his eye. If he gets the right angle, maybe he can reach his parietal lobe and get the pain to fucking stop.
It's five minutes before he can get up, then another two massaging his thigh before he can get down on his knees. Thank God at least his fucking fingers work, so once he's down he can pick each pill up with the agility of a 1840s peasant playing marbles with his chaps.
He dry swallows his allotted 10 mgs and hopes the 20 minutes it takes to kick in go quickly.
He knows the wait is agony either way, so he pushes himself up, grabbing his cane, and goes to the kitchen. He stands on one foot, wobbling slightly as he cracks a couple eggs into a pan. This works fine until about halfway through his scramble, when his hip starts to cramp. He discovers rather quickly that putting his foot down sends a lightning bolt of pain up his adductor.
Well, fine, if that's the game his leg wants to play.
He grits his teeth and dares it to hurt more as he starts chopping his bacon into little bits. But he only gets through half a slice of bacon before his leg seizes up. He huffs and leaves the bacon soaking grease into the countertop.
His cane falls over when he flops down in his chair. He stares at it, lifeless and stiff on the carpet. He thinks about bashing his head against the wall. He doesn't, because that would require getting up.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares at nothing. He tries to name every muscle in the body, but keeps getting stuck on rectus femoris.
He tries not to remember that Tuesdays used to be jogging day, that he used to - willingly! enthusiastically! - get up at 6 in the morning and jog thrice around the block. That he used to love the burn in his lungs and his calves afterwards. He tries not to look at the spot on the wall where he used to hang the medals he got from running all his marathons. He tries not to remember that he still has them, and that they're buried in a box in the back of his closet.
He does, though. Remember. He always does.
His eggs burn.
He eats them anyway; The Vicodin has started to make his stomach hurt.