Sawbones by Ed Kurtz

Author:Ed Kurtz [Kurtz, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: suspense, historical
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2018-06-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

I opened my eyes and it looked as though I was under water. I could not have been; naturally, one does not breathe under water. It did not seem to matter very much to me in either case. I was sleepy and warm. I closed my eyes again.

The next time I worked at lifting my heavy lids, I made out the indistinct figure of a man. He was swaying back and forth, and he made a little sound of exclamation. I think I must have smiled at him, because for some reason I enjoyed his company. I felt profoundly sad when he went away, and then when he came back there was a rush of joy that almost knocked the scales from my eyes. Momentarily, he brought his hand up over my face—something was in his hand, but I could not determine what it was. Whatever it was, it came down over my nose and mouth and it was cold but lined with something soft like velvet. I returned to that comfortable wrapped-up feeling of deep sleep.

When I woke again my throat felt like it was full of sand and my skin was too tight. I tried to sit up, but that was far too much for me just then. Instead, I only turned my head and patiently waited for my eyes to clear up.

First there were muter colors, then the colors fell into shapes, sharper. After a little while longer, I could tell that I was looking at a circular window. Beyond the glass was blue sky and cottony wisps of white clouds. The clouds were floating past rather quickly. I balled my hands into fists, a little surprised to find that my fingers were so stiff and sore that the action hurt a bit. It was as though I had been totally prone for days. I turned my head back and stared at the ceiling, and only then did I fully recognize the hypnotic drone of the lapping water and what sounded like a giant’s consumptive breath. Well, that explained the clouds. I was on a boat.

The lapping made me wince. I was thirsty; thirstier than I had ever been before in all my life. I wanted to cry out for a glass of water, a thimbleful, anything—but I was afraid that the dry, papery wall of my throat would tear apart if I did. I tried licking my lips, but it was like rubbing dried meat on a newspaper. I missed my friend, the man with the mask that made me go to sleep.

After a while (I do not know how long), he came into the room and sat down beside me on the edge of the bed. (I was on a bed; it had not yet occurred to me.) He pried my eyelids open one at a time between his forefinger and thumb, glaring at my eyes in turn and making little clicking noises with his tongue. Had I tried to mimic him, I would surely have only made scraping sounds.

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