Chapter 4.

Touch. One can see. One can hear. But it is touch that brings us back from the realm of dreams. It is the most direct interaction with the outer world we know of, and the hardest one to fake. That’s why we ask someone to pinch us when we want to know if we are not dreaming. But I had no one to do that there. I still could not move. I was beginning to doubt I would ever do it again. All I knew is that I was probably more time unconscious than otherwise, as I had still met no one but was being kept fed and clean, as far as I could tell. The room was by now very familiar to me. The conversations with the lady in the picture, my only company so far, were getting longer and longer - a sign that I was getting better and better, even if also a bit insane.

I heard foot steps in the corridor, and instinctively closed my eyes. As the door opened, so did my eyes again, but just enough so I could see without giving away that I was actually awake. A shape came in. Instead of what I expected (or hoped), it was the shape of a man. A tall, handsome, richly dressed young man, probably just a few years older than me. He stopped at the door frame for what seemed to be an eternity, looking at my direction, as if unsure of what he was going to do next. Finally, he stepped in and closed the door. The hesitation raised my fears, and I tried not to shake while he walked towards me with light steps. About halfway through the distance from the door to the bed, he glanced at the picture of the girl I had grown to love already, and the look on his face was like a punch in the nose. I knew now who the artist who painted all those scenes was. And that the joyful look on her face wasn’t directed to me, but to the man standing a few paces away. As he came closer, I had to close my eyes again, but could feel his presence. Minutes passed by, and I waited for what I thought would be some final blow from him. When it came, it was not what I waited for. Only after he removed the soaked tissue from my forehead did I notice I was sweating cold. He put back a dry one, and then I heard the only words he spoke while there. They were drenched in emotion, but I knew they were true. When he started to walk back to the door, a feeling of guilty already started to cling to me. From the moment he walked out, I was sure that, no matter how much I tried, I would never be able to hate that man. The man whose only words while tending to my wounds had been “Thank you”.