Sandra Washington

It takes a while for Azrael’s brain fuzz to dissipate. He opens his eyes and cannot see for a few seconds. Blinking, his vision clears enough to realise that the noise he’s hearing is his mother’s voice. Her face is close to his, her hand on his cheek, stroking it. Her voice is soft, coaxing. “That’s it, Azrael, good boy. Come up, that’s it. Back up to me. Back up to Mommy. Wake up.” Suddenly becoming very aware that he’s restrained at the wrists to the leather chair he’s sat in.