Piece of Writing from few months ago.

He can't feel a thing. He lay down on the bed after removing his clothes and miserably gazed up at the milkly dots in the ceiling. He reached above his head and pulled a pillow out from underneath his hair. He put it over his face.

'Shit fucking place.' He stares upwards with a pillow over his face and then subsequently removes it, seeing the dot of the lightbulb.

'So the lightbulb hung itself.'

Just then a wet crash and a solid bang came from the room next door as if someone had fallen in the shower. He kept still, listening for movement, but heard none. He didn't get up. His stomach began to itch.

At that moment, his left thigh itched and the itch wouldn't leave. It felt like a burning in a pin-prick. The pillow, which he tried to suffocate under, was on his chest, making him a little too warm. In one instance he felt a slave. An itch on his left foot. A flashing light off to his right going on and off ...

It was only at the turn of nine o' clock that he could remove the pillow and sit up straight, stretching; cracking his bones into place and allowing a warm breath of radioactive air into his lungs.