A Cold Russian Night

I walked across the football field blanketed by snow mimicking a frozen Russian tundra exagerated by the half emptied bottle of vodka in my hand resting next to the other half that sleeps in my stomach. My organs once had solidarity but now have decided that communication is not important and have become hermits who are trying to escape one another. My feet have become frightened as they have to think for themselves now, my brain must have had more important things going on. I stumble across the vast Russian field. My veins, the vodka in them diluted only by my blood, have started a mutiny with my feet as they almost cease working already having trouble walking on snow as it is. By the time I cross I am having an easier time walking, I must be in China by now, gravel, a welcoming feeling under my feet, rolling rocks that are felt through the soles of my shoes. I round the corner of the school, Mat standing patiently, or impatiently for me, too drunk to have taken mental notes on it.

"Hey"
I can't remember what I said back to him, probably incoherent or irrelevant, maybe both. My feet have decided they have had enough abuse and want to rest, they walk away from my body and my head was not prepared and now rests on the ground. The gravel and rolling rocks no longer a welcome feeling. I got back up almost as swiftly as I fell, or it may have taken years by comparison, my head still trying to figure out why we were on the ground.

My head rests on the softest pillow it has ever encountered, my bed slanted so I can lie down, but so I am able to take in my surroundings. Pale blue curtains on both sides, bed with short white railings, crying to my right, silence to my left and a seemingly endless hallway taunting me, "You'll never reach these doors," it would say if it could talk, pale blue shirt and pants much too large for my body, which has almost put itslef back together. Then I thanked the nurse every minute for helping keep me alive.