The sunlight coming through the window by my bed was doing its absolute best to be cheerful about the whole situation, and I appreciated the effort… really, but the sheer harassment I felt for feeling this hospital gown against my skin was one thing I genuinely cannot get over.
I had worn these for eight long years, and I had truly hoped I wouldn't ever have to again. But then again, such is life. And life loves its little jokes.
The priest that stood before, examining me, was an old man with the kind of gentle eyes that belong to someone who has spent decades delivering difficult news without cruelty, and he was currently doing exactly that, moving through his examination with quiet care.
His eyes were tracing the stump of my left arm first, then the stump where my right leg had been, then pressing with his finger lightly around the stitched stab wound at my stomach, before finally cupping my chin and tilting my head to look at the left eye with a small lamp held close.
