The Guy with one leg
The guy with one leg flicked open his eyes and gasped, greedily sucking in lungfulls of the dusty, stale air around him. He was in pain, rather a lot of pain by his standards, and he couldn’t remember why. With a look of strained confusion, he propped himself up, slouching against the wall and let out a long, staggered sigh. Why him? The question stung his brain, and his leg even more. He sighed again, blinked three times and surveyed his ex-office.
The room itself was quite small, completely trashed and too grey for its own good. The wallpaper had faded to grey, the grey carpet was covered in grey dust, and sheets of paper that belonged in the ‘out’ basket were scattered everywhere. However, it was once an extremely tidy room. The kind of fresh, neat, room where a chronically OCD person would feel right at home. Not, anymore.
The guy with one leg shuddered, he most certainly did not feel right at home, he had always detested mess, and kept his office spick and span… especially the ‘out’ box. He coughed the dust from his throat and craned his neck forwards to investigate the dull pain in his knee. Sprawled in front of him were his two feet, side by side. He stared at them, and slowly but surely an odd sensation washed over him, the occult sense that something about his feet, was very, very wrong... No! It couldn’t be!
The guy with one leg flicked open his eyes and gasped, greedily sucking in lungfulls of the dusty, stale air around him. He was in pain, rather a lot of pain by his standards, and he couldn’t remember why. With a look of strained confusion, he propped himself up, slouching against the wall and let out a long, staggered sigh. Why him? The question stung his brain, and his leg even more. He sighed again, blinked three times and surveyed his ex-office.
The room itself was quite small, completely trashed and too grey for its own good. The wallpaper had faded to grey, the grey carpet was covered in grey dust, and sheets of paper that belonged in the ‘out’ basket were scattered everywhere. However, it was once an extremely tidy room. The kind of fresh, neat, room where a chronically OCD person would feel right at home. Not, anymore.
The guy with one leg shuddered, he most certainly did not feel right at home, he had always detested mess, and kept his office spick and span… especially the ‘out’ box. He coughed the dust from his throat and craned his neck forwards to investigate the dull pain in his knee. Sprawled in front of him were his two feet, side by side. He stared at them, and slowly but surely an odd sensation washed over him, the occult sense that something about his feet, was very, very wrong... No! It couldn’t be!
