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The pain spoke to him. As he lay there in bed the pain beat at the door he had erected in his mind to keep it under control. The pain was whispering through the keyhole, sending, sharp, penetrating spikes through his head and into his eyes. His eyes felt like tennis balls covered in maple syrup and set ablaze. He slowly stood up; he knew if he arose quickly, he’d vomit, as the pain convinced his body that it needed to get his attention. He shuffled to the bathroom and lay on the cool marble floor, his sweat-soaked skin shuddering as it came in contact with the freezing floor. This always helped, the heat generated by the pain was slowly dissipating and he was able to think of something beside his head, the pain, and the likelihood of spewing all over the floor.