I am back. It is the lavender: it returns all my senses to normal, via memory, or else by the punctuated burn of my nostrils. Outside, a car slips past. Voices dematerialise out of ear shot.
“Can you feel my hand?”
A butterfly flutters.
“It tickles.”
“You are still waking up.”
Angled slivers of warmth break through the blinds. I think there is a hint of movement behind there.
“Try squeezing my hand.” - “That's good.”
Birds flirt from tree-tops. More voices, low and authoritative, pass me by.
“Inform the family, if they are still interested.”
“Can you smell lavender?”
“You might feel a little jab. It will only hurt a bit.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
My nostrils burn.
“All done.”
“Can you smell lavender?”
“Now look up at the ceiling.”
Coal miners hunched, pointing torches down tunnels: praying for survivors.
“I can smell lavender, like there are flowers nearby”
Dead canaries can’t sing. Scented pillows?
“Nobody has come to visit in quite a long time.”
No. Well almost. Fresh, damp washing that I can bury my face in. So fresh I almost suffocate. The lavender permeates right through past my eyeballs - even there I can feel it burn.
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