The Final Days Of Herb Tulliver

Herb woke to a stark white blurriness that slowly took on contrast as he blinked. He turned his head away from the window and its retina-searing light. He didn’t recognize this room, this bed, or the smell of this pillow. He closed his eyes and took a deeper breath.

Beeps and many footsteps, squeaky shoes, and the smack of swinging doors reached his ears. The strong smell of disinfectant and the mild tinge of soap, probably the detergent from the pillowcase, filled his nose.

The stiffness of the sheets and heaviness of the blanket began to make him feel trapped, a guest in a foreign land he did not choose to visit. He wanted up, out, to be free to move his body away from this too bright, too clean, too uneasy room. But suddenly he felt completely exhausted. Were they drugging him?!

He raised his arm just a little to spy the IV line in his hand. Following it with his eyes, he squinted to read the print on the bag. Saline. Another bag hung there too, but it was turned from him.

“Morning Mr. Tulliver.”

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