He’s confined to his bed because of his disease. The once powerful, raging body, now whittled down to gaunt lifelessness. When I visit, he likes to demonstrate how the bedside lamp comes on when he claps his hands. Over and over he does this.
I feel sorry for him and his infant-like state, but I bitch about how irritating it is - the clapping, the light going on and off. He mumbles something hard to understand, but I’m sure it’s about kicking my ass if he was healthy. I smirk, unplug the lamp as I leave the room.
I feel sorry for him and his infant-like state, but I bitch about how irritating it is - the clapping, the light going on and off. He mumbles something hard to understand, but I’m sure it’s about kicking my ass if he was healthy. I smirk, unplug the lamp as I leave the room.
