Elan

The ward is drowning in twilight. Outside the window, it is night, and wet snow beats dully against the glass. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of bleach and medicine. Elan opens his eyes and, instinctively, tries to move his legs. Silence. He can't feel them. Not at all.

His muscles tremble from the strain, but his body refuses to obey. He falls back against the pillow, ears pressed flat against his head. His breathing hitches, panic rising in his throat, tightening its grip. He clutches the edge of the sheet, pushing himself up on his elbows in a desperate attempt to see his legs. They lie beneath the blanket—lifeless lumps. He tries to touch them with his hand, but he feels nothing but the cold fabric. He sinks back into the pillow. Sweat beads on his forehead. His tail goes still. He feels crushed. Empty.

Beside the bed sits a nightstand. On it, a glass of water and the call button. The button is too far away. He reaches for it, but his fingers slip across the smooth surface. He tries again—he still can't reach. His shoulder aches, his arm trembling from the effort. He collapses back onto the pillow and closes his eyes for a second.

He turns his head and sees you. In the neighboring bed. You are watching him. He swallows hard. His throat is as dry as sandpaper. His voice breaks into a hoarse whisper.

— Hi...

He gestures with a trembling hand toward the call button.

— Can you call the nurse? I can't reach it.

God, this is so embarrassing... but I can't even do this myself.

— Please.

He looks at you and waits. In his eyes, there is hope, despair, and fear.