It was starting to end, after what seemed most of eternity to me.
I attempted to wriggle my toes, succeeded. I was sprawled there in a hospital bed and my legs were done up in plaster casts, but they were still mine.
I squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them, three times.
The room grew steady.
Where the hell was I?
Then the fogs were slowly broken, and some of that which is called memory returned to me. I recalled nights and nurses and needles. Every time things would begin to clear a bit, somenone would come in and jab me with something. That’s how it had been. Yes. Now, thought, I was feeling halfway decent. They’d have to stop.
The thought came to assail me. Maybe not.
Some natural skepticism as to the purity of all human motives came and sat upon my chest. I’d been over-narcotized, I suddenly knew. No real reason for it, from the way I felt, and no reason for them to stop now, if they’d been paid to keep it up. So play it cool and stay dopey, said the voice which was my worst, if wiser, self.
So I did.
Roger Zelazny, The Great Book of Amber
editor: Avon Books, New York, Dez. 1999
citação: página 1