The Truth

 I didn't know how long had passed. It was more than two weeks. That was all I knew. I laid across the couch in the common area with a book I'd read a million times. I'd originally picked it up because reading horror in times of trauma could be calming. The calm had morphed into boredom that acted as a cut atop a joint that reopened with every movement. The room smelled of mildew. I wished we could open the window. I missed the smell of cool, fresh air.

 I missed my people most of all. I was glad to miss them. Nothing else would have kept my sanity intact in this perpetual boredom.

 John entered the room and I considered asking Mary if she could test her education on me instead of allowing me to suffer through his presence. He grabbed a book and sat at the end of the sofa. Opening the book he gave me the impression that he would read in silence. That was not the case.