I sat bolt upright.
The bed was damp under me and strands of hair stuck to my face. I was breathing shallow and fast, and as I found myself, I concentrated on breathing deep and slow. I grabbed my blanket and wiped myself down. They needed to be washed anyway.
I grabbed the bed frame and pulled myself around so my leg hung from the bed. The floorboards were cold beneath the sole of my foot and I could feel the grain of the wood under my toes.
I leaned onto my elbow, then lay down on my side so I could reach the prosthetic arm that lay between the bed and the end table. I sat back up and slid the rod into the socket in my arm, and it gave a whirring noise. The screen in the forearm lit up and a loading screen appeared. A few seconds later, the arm shuddered to life, and I used it to pick up the leg that lay next to it. Same deal. Click. Load. Shudder.
I stood and took a breath. I stepped forward and stumbled for a moment, then regained my balance and moved toward the bathroom. They were good prosthetics; payed for in compensation for serving my country, but not good enough for sensory input so that first step in the morning was doozy.
It's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
I turned on the hot water and stripped off the pants I slept in. I stood there while the water heated up and when it did, I stepped in and stood there for a long while, just waking up.
Hot water was a luxury we didn't have in... well, it was nice.
After about ten minutes of standing there, I got to washing myself.
I poured shampoo into my hair - another welcome luxury - and lathered up. It smelled like lime and honey. The scent tingled and the hot water soothed, both of them serving to relax the tension that snuck up on me during the night.
When I finished, I stepped out, grabbing the fresh towel off the rack. I pressed my face into it. It smelled like home.
I dried and dressed - black pants, collared blue shirt, white gloves, and black dress shoes; the only pair of shoes I owned, - and made my way down stairs.
The smell of cinnamon and strawberries reached me as I left the bottom step and stepped into the kitchen. It wasn't a small room, but it wasn't large by any standard.
The dinner table sat in the middle of the room with a metre and a half either side for traffic. The floor was covered with old linoleum made to look like those classic black and white checkered tiles, and had started to curve upward at the corners several years ago. The appliances complained occasionally, but worked well enough when you hit them just right. It was the house I grew up in.
The woman at the stove didn't turn when I walked in, but said "Mornin' Noah."
"Morning Momma," I said back, sitting down at the table. The linoleum lining the top of the table was peeling too. I picked at it while I looked at the stove.
I breathed deep.
"Smells good," I said on the exhale. After not too long, she walked over and put a plate of french toast covered in cinnamon, strawberries and maple syrup on the table in front of me. She bent forward and pointed at her cheek. I kissed it and said "Thanks Momma."
She smiled and said "Eat it before it goes cold."
I said "Don't worry about that," and started piling it in.
She came over with a plate of her own and we sat in silence as we ate. When we finished, she took our plates and started washing dishes. I grabbed a towel and dried as she washed.
