Whipped

"Now," Herself says. "Don't get mad when I say this. But..."
I am lying on my back on the tiled floor of the kitchen, staring wildly at the ceiling.
I have not washed any part of my anatomy in, we think, three weeks.
It is possible I have not spoken with anyone other than a cat in a month.
My hands are claws into which only some of the simplest, most primitive tools with which one hits something very hard fit.
I have sweated 321 litres of water.
I have wrapped my belt three times around my waist.
I have eaten only some crumbs from an upended toaster found in the cupboard beneath the oven.
I am blind.
I am repeating to myself, over and over: "Make it work. Make it work. Make it work."
She says:
"The door of the cabinet is on crooked. It is obviously higher on the right-hand side than on the left."
I whimper.
My eyebrow, over my left eye, begins to twitch uncontrollably.
And yet I find myself on hands and knees with screwdriver in hand adjusting the screws of the hinges of the cabinet door.
My knees shall probably never work properly again.
My spleen has given up excreting whatever substance a spleen is made to excrete.
"Make it work," I mutter.
"Make it work."