California king

I wake up on the floor in the only bedroom of my apartment. I’m parallel to the bed, but facing the wrong way. The lights are on. The fan is barely spinning; its movement looks almost accidental, as if it were being driven by exhalation rather than electricity. As consciousness slowly returns I am aware of a pain radiating down my right leg, starting with a serrated, stabbing sensation in my hip and ending with burning, near-numb needles in my purplish big toe. My left ankle literally feels like it’s on fire, but I’m unable to sit up and confirm the cause. Panic drives me to use the footboard of my bed to pull me to my knees, but the pain is so intense I crumble into a heap between the bed and the wall. Just before hitting the ground, I decide it was a mistake to squeeze a king size bed into such a small room. The bedroom furniture was one of the few concessions I was granted in the divorce, however, and I was determined to enjoy the Pyrrhic victory.