The Stirring

He stirs. His movements hurt just a little less than they did the day before. His throat, still a wreckage of bile and rawness, proves useless to him. He tries again to speak. Slowly the words and the air come, but the moisture won't. It's as if he never had a drink, ever. It's as if his body is bone dry. His desert throat betrays him and communication is impossible. He groans and motions, but he is alone. She has left him for now. She will undoubtedly return soon--her love compels her. He does not deserve it. He sleeps again. This is good. Rest is good. He may indeed survive. Then again he may not.