Pick these pins and needles up will you? She’s spilled the damned things all over the carpet.
He attempted to lift a bare foot to show me the damage. It jerked a little but failed to leave the floor. He was slumped low in the chair, his body a dead weight, and his endless legs splayed out awkwardly across the kitchen rug.
Here, give me a hand up. His right hand gripped the chair arm, his muscles visibly straining through his shirt sleeve. So focused was he on resuming the upright, that he didn’t even hear death knocking at the door.
Pins! The word was spat across the room from the opposite chair. She was worrying the collar of her pyjamas, repeatedly twisting and untwisting the tartan flannelette. And all the time her body rocked back and forth, her dead fish eyes seeing and not seeing. Tears and strings of snot coursed down her face.
There’s nothing wrong with him, she spluttered incoherently. He’s perfectly alright.