The Labour (3)
The light of the hospital room was borderline blinding as I blinked for the very first time after giving birth. My throat felt dry and my eyes gritty, like someone had dumped a bucketful of sand into them. I needed water.
Having been asleep for who knows how long, the last thing my pupils wanted to see and my nostrils wanted to smell was blinding white and medication. The constant noise of telephones at the nurses station and rubber shoes squeaking against the pristine floors was quickly grating on my last nerves. It wasn't until I was fully conscious that my senses became vaguely aware of a waft of cologne floating my way. It was a scent that I knew all too well.
"What time is it?" It felt like an eternity had passed since the last time I spoke, and my voice came out in a terrifying croak, something between an impaled bull and donkey-rooster amalgamation. It was embarrassing.