Have you ever felt a thought was somehow…fuzzy? Like, if you could pet the thought, and it grew fur. A pelt as thick as a bear, touched by the sheen of a wolf, rugged and pristine at the same time.
That’s how I came out of it. Every tiny thought, the usual of where, how, when–like a group of bunnies rushing down a country road.
Looking around hurt my neck and back. It left me breathless and tossed needles under my skin. My right eye was left swollen, my body stuck to the bathroom due to a sticky substance that caked into my shirt.
Iron bounced around the ceramic. It caused my face to crinkle, hurting my bulging facial skin. I couldn’t feel my legs and a burning stab contoured my spine and ribs.
My heart drummed in my ears, my temples, every inch of my body.
No cold, no warmth–akin to nothing. Yet thoughts were still fuzzy.
I felt around blindly, at least with what seven fingers worked. A knife tumbled against the toilet, tipped by the back of my hand. As I continued, a second knife was nudged into the trashcan, knocking it over.
When my forearm brushed a spot of warm, I flinched back to the safety of my blood puddle.
In a wave, the fuzziness cleared, and the memories rushed back stronger than ever.