Part six

There were many long nights that Pugdeon lay staring up at his bedroom ceiling. Contemplation was a place in which he found himself often. That place was where Pugdeon recounted the things that had occurred. Things, that for Pugdeon, had gone too fast and been too much to fathom at the time of their occurrence.

It was the February of the year prior when he had noted that his world had stopped spinning. It seemed to Pugdeon as though that's all he'd known. Dizzy confusion. But he liked the calm. He had warm memories of a time once before in which the world had planted itself firmly, and it was good. It meant that Pugdeon could live without the need for working out which way was up before every step. He even felt pride in knowing that life could toss and turn, but cause only mild vertigo. Not bad he'd thought to himself, not bad at all.

By mid winter in the same year Pugdeon knew his mother was ill. He didn't know how, or why, or what, and neither did the Doctors. But Pugdeon knew for certain, that his mothers face held a knowing that he had seen only once prior. It was the type of knowing that one never ever forgot.