Footman of a Greek God

One by one he lined the prescribed regiment of medications on his thigh. He then took a long deep breath and rubbed his temples before he unscrewed the bottle of warm water with which to consume them. A sliver of sunlight fell through cracks of gently moving window shades, highlighting the rotund tablet as if each were planets of the solar system all steamed out across a blue jeaned universe. He thought of himself a lone explorer adrift on the ocean beholding the heavens, contemplating life’s meanings or in this case; cures. His ever so slightly shaking leg mimicked the waves beneath the boat. Yet as he drank the bottle of water a pounding in his head thrust him leftward and then to the right forcing refocusing to a place deeper into past consciousness to brace against the throbbing for respite from the pain. And there he was, a grunt burrowing into a foxhole with gun and a radio calling out. “ Alpha Bravo, do you copy? We need those two o’clocks and we need them stat!” His body a war torn landscape of disastrous cures, burnt out regimens and charred pronouncements with only scant hope of ever being well again enveloped in a mysterious fog of unknown origin. The doctors had said his immune system was battling against itself, and that friend had turned to foe and brother against brother and homelands no longer homelands but battlegrounds where even the gentlest touch of his skin no longer yielded pleasure but discomfort. Clearing his head, he again saw the little circles on his legs and thought of celestial firmaments. There were the two moons of Jupiter and a red Mars and a very large Mercury. The dull gray oblong centurion for sure was the footman of a Greek god.

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