Bitter Memory #1: Smell/Touch/Hearing
He feels pain. Constant, throbbing, aching pain that sears through his limbs and joints like someone is holding a hot iron to his bones. It hurts to stand, but he cannot sit. It hurts to walk, but he cannot limp. He will not show weakness. He will stand straight, and he will speak as though nothing bothers him. That's his rule.
It's clean here. Clean, with that chalky, stuffy smell that comes with public places. And cutting through the scent of sterility, as before, was the intoxicating scent of coffee. The number 87 was sticking out in his head for some reason. Blend #87, hot and warming the ceramic cup that his hand is wrapped around. The hallways echo and there's the dull roar of people speaking in the background, not the frantic rush of doctors and nurses nor the clicks and beeps of machinery. He feels at home here somehow, as opposed to the unpleasant dread from the hospital.
The next thing he notices is the voice. One particular voice. There is a man speaking to him, a man whose voice is familiar. But it's not the familiarity of a friend or a family member, or even a vague acquaintance. No, he knows that voice. It's stirring things in his head and in his heart. That voice is creating a rising emotion in his chest, an emotion like he has no recollection of feeling like this before. It's a sickening combination of anger and irritation, frustration and sorrow.
"Hey, uh..." The man stops speaking for a moment. Or perhaps he just stops listening. "Thanks for your help in there. I really appreciate it."
That voice makes him sick. He hates this man. He wants to grab this man by the collar and scream right in his face. He wants to hurt this man, not physically, but with words that cut deep, worm their way under the skin and torment him so that perhaps, this man could know even a fraction of the pain he feels.
Even so, he smiles through the pain. "Even a child could have come to the same conclusion you did. I hope you haven't made the folly of assuming you and I are allies, Mr. Tr---."
"What? Sorry, that's actually pronounced-"
"Let's take a moment to clarify our situation, Mr. Tr---."
The coffee smell grows stronger and its warmth slides down his throat.
"I despise you. You and I are enemies. And please, take me at face value on this...
"I've crawled back from the depths of hell to do battle with you, Mr. Tr---."