An object for a purpose
Ivo's awareness returned in stages.
First, he became conscious of the familiar bed under his body, the scratchy sheets wrapped loosely around him, the rattling breeze of a fan turned in his direction, and the sound of the rushing city blowing through the open window
Then, he heard the voices of the people he loved; talking over his still form, worrying as to why he wasn't waking. Sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, but always scared. Ivo wanted to sit up in bed and tell them he was fine, that everything was fine.
But that wouldn't have been the truth, with the returning awareness came the memories.
Ivo recalled with crisp, heartbreaking, clarity the days after he woke up for the first time after being shot. The memories were his own, but it was like watching someone else inhabit his body. A funhouse facsimile wearing his face and behaving like a different person.
But wasn't that all he was?