#132b

Of course, when I said that it was time to make a list, I didn't mean it literally. What I was talking about was coming up with a clear plan of action, ordering the chaos of my mind. Oh, and for all those skeptical enough to think “He's faking it!” I'll tell you now, he wasn't.

My mental list was this:

1. Kitchen
2. Knife/scissors/something sharp
3. Release hand brake
4. Get John out the bathroom
5. Fresh air. That failing –
6. Bucket of cold water in the face. If still no signs of life –
7. Phone ambulance or mum or Verity
8. Ventilate flat
9. Come up with an alibi 

☼

As I pushed John down the hall his body had slipped so far down that his legs got all caught up and mangled between the small front wheels of his chair. I had to stop, untangle him and heave him up. Oh it was heartbreaking. The man I loved all limp and floppy as he was. I decided that until I was told for certain he was dead, I'd just kid on he had some debilitating brain and bone disease – that this was all quite normal.

Seeing John in the kitchen was strange. The bathroom and hallway are both dark places, but here, it was light and bright and clear. It seemed to make the situation much more real and urgent. I started thinking of the seriousness of the circumstances, the repercussions if he was really dead. As I opened the window the world let out a cruel screech.

Fresh air + nothing = John still dead. It was now left up to some old B-movie trick to save me from the slammer...

As the spaghetti pan filled with cold water I turned to John and warned him of the consequences of not waking up; what I'd do to him if he stayed dead; how not even I would forgive him that one. And then the water was tumbling over the lip of the pot and gurgling down the plug hole. My time had come... I was about to test my fate.

I stood in front of John with the saucepan of cold water. I made the decision that rather than hit him with two or three small splashes, it'd be better to chuck the entire pan over him – try to simultaneously flood his nose and mouth up. I thought it would be more that than the shock of the cold that could bring him back. I swung the saucepan forward and released:

Whhh oooo oooo oooo ssss hhhhh! ! ! !

The water slapped John a good one in face and burst all over him. I prayed for the cough, the jump, the theatrical splutter as John came to, but there was none of that. Rather, there was a pause, then the sound of dripping water, then John's right arm trembling away. At first lightly, like a bad case of Parkinsons jitters, then getting progressively worse, more violent, until it was completely spazzing out.

With his arm continuing to thrash away, John began to sit up, stiffly, as if with tremendous effort. It seemed like he only had movement across the right side of his body. And then he was sitting (sort of), groaning and dribbling and flapping away. His face was hung with pain, but not sophisticated, emotional pain, but something animalistic and base. From the way he looked like he was trying to eat his own mouth, I think he wanted to speak.  But it was useless, at least for now. I looked at John in horror, but also relief. My adversary was alive, though God only knew what condition his brain was in.