Chapter 41: A Helping Hand

“Oliver! Oliver!”

A faint voice penetrated through the fog surrounding Oliver, reverberating, like an echo in a cave. He shifted and groaned. He felt like he had gone to sleep on a bed of splinters. His head was pounding mercilessly.

“Oliver, wake up!”

Oliver pried open his eyes. A dark silhouette was leaning over him, its face framed by long hair. But he could not make out anything else. The world was nothing but a confused blur, with shapes and shadows crossing and recrossing endlessly.

It made his head pound worse to watch. Oliver quickly closed his eyes again, shutting out the chaos.

The echoing voice came again. “Ah, so you are awake. No, no, by all means Ollie-boy, don’t interrupt your beauty rest on my account. I’ll just sit here patiently until you decide to drag that useless flesh sack you call a body out of bed, shall I?”

Oliver groaned again. “Go away,” he mumbled thickly, rolling away from the voice.