I didn't know how long had passed. It was more than two weeks. That was all I knew. I laid across the couch in the common area with a book I'd read a million times. I'd originally picked it up because reading horror in times of trauma could be calming. The calm had morphed into boredom that acted as a cut atop a joint that reopened with every movement. The room smelled of mildew. I wished we could open the window. I missed the smell of cool, fresh air.
I missed my people most of all. I was glad to miss them. Nothing else would have kept my sanity intact in this perpetual boredom.
John entered the room and I considered asking Mary if she could test her education on me instead of allowing me to suffer through his presence. He grabbed a book and sat at the end of the sofa. Opening the book he gave me the impression that he would read in silence. That was not the case.
"I miss you," He murmured. When I didn't respond he said, "I know what's going on," In a hushed tone.
