The Drunken Storytellings of a Madman.

Part 15 - Chapter 4 - A Helping Hand

"CLEAR!"
Consciousness returned.
And then I awoke.

It was so sudden, as if I had been brought back from the shallow brink of death, resuscitated at the last possible moment. I thought I had reached the end of my life, a short strip of string laid out in a line. But I guess someone had the idea to get some sellotape and attach a longer piece of string. A good case of DIY.

My eyes would flicker open, and then I immediately wrenched them shut as a blinding light pierced through my iris and pupils, frying the inside of my head and causing an unpleasant first moment for my revival.

My head was pounding, that within itself wasn't unusual, but rather than the mild beat of a drum that came with the consequences of constant alcohol. It was like someone had snuck inside my head and was furiously beating and kicking every brain cell that hadn't already been rendered useless. Or maybe it was more like the howling of a thousand wolfs, all screeching together in a series of melancholic discord.

I couldn't decide, all I could really focus on was shielding my eyes from my waking light, actually, maybe it was Heaven? People always seemed to talk about a bright, shining light when they "ascended." The thought annoyed me, because if that was Heaven, it meant I was wrong about my beliefs. And I'm not wrong. So it's not Heaven.

Bit by bit, my senses began to return to me, to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, and probably the worst sense I could want right now. I could feel. Feel every bit of that burning sensation yet again, the electric shock that had spread through my chest, the lack of an arm and a leg. And worst of all, I could feel the most excruciating pain of all, it was a mental pain. And that meant only one thing.

Someone was helping me. 
And I hated that fact, so, so much.