W is for Wax

He woke up in bed with his arm hanging straight up in the air before him, locked in some kind of half-hearted heil. No bend at the elbow, his fingers outstretched and splayed in desperation, like he’d been reaching for something, struggling to grasp it. Something eternally beyond his reach.

“When the hell did that happen?”

He tried to bring his arm in, but it didn’t move. For a moment, he wondered if he’d thought about performing the action without actually performing it. He frowned and said to himself, “I am going to relax my arm,” and then he did. He could feel the muscles in his arm and his back tightening in exertion.

His arm didn’t move.

He decided to smart small. His hand. When that didn’t work, he started smaller, just a finger or two. It was difficult, in the way that he imagined it must be for people who had suffered terrible injuries, like he was bravely learning to walk again. But that was ridiculous. His arms had been fine when he’d gone to bed, hadn’t they?

Wait, could he walk?

His legs were motionless, unresponsive to his mental commands to get up, to flex his toes.

The fingers, then. He would lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling and willing himself to move no matter how long it took. And if it took an eternity, then he would like there, a wax statue willing itself to melt.


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