I sit and stare at the TV. I don't know what I'm watching anymore. All I know is that I like the comforting glow that radiates across my face. The hum of the bass soothes my ears as some nameless hero shoots round after round at wave after wave of faceless bad guys. This is all I care about now. It's my favourite time of the day, not that I can remember what time of day it is. I can feel my eyes getting dry and it makes me wonder, for a moment, when the last time I blinked was. But I just can't be bothered. All I want is to remain in that peaceful bluish glow, the images on the screen burning themselves into my retinas.

“Holy shit! How long have you been sitting there?”

I'm only vaguely aware that someone is speaking to me. I can only assume they're horrified by the mess I'm sitting in. My need to go to the toilet had been relieved nearly twenty minutes ago, but I hadn't gone anywhere to do it.

“It fucking stinks in here,” continues the voice, gnawing at the edge of my consciousness.

The action hero on the screen rips off his tattered shirt in order to patch wound while a line of dribble bungees off my bottom lip. I love it when action movies have a go at sex appeal. All these fit hunks exposing sweaty sweaty torso for fan-girls who will never watch. Bulging pecs, ripped abs and hulking biceps covered in cuts and bruises. Men watch and feel strangely aroused, assuming it must have something to do with all the war.

“I'm turning this off.”

The screen goes blank. I blink finally and feel a layer of crust break away from my eyeball.

“This is disgusting. How long have you been here?”

I shrug.

“I think it's about time you get off your arse and explore the outside world for a bit. What do you say?”

I shrug again. A face enters my field of vision. It's a kind face, one I have known for a long time. The deep brown eyes find mine and search within my depths for the part of me that might be listening.

“Look, I know how hard it has been for you since he passed, but you need to fight that feeling of hopelessness in order to move on. It's what he would have wanted.”

I shrug again and the kind face lets out a sigh.

“Ok, suit yourself. I'm going to go and start prepping some dinner. The TV is not going back on until you have been outside for at least a little today. Do you understand?”

I shift my eyes to follow the face as it rises away from me and disappears, off in the direction of the kitchen.

“And, to prove to you that I mean business, I'm cutting the power to the living room at the circuit breaker here.”

The lights suddenly go out in the room, replaced by long beams of light creeping through the gaps in the curtains.

I groan and fumble about beside me for the TV remote. A few clicks of the ON button tell me that the TV is not exempt from the power cut. With another groan, I fling the remote at the TV and heave myself to my feet. Which way was outside again? I swallow an urge to vomit and make my way over to one of the cracks in the curtain. Flinging it to one side, the street reveals itself to me, bright in the mid-afternoon sun. I shield my eyes with my forearm while fumbling for the latch on the window with my other hand. The latch gives and I slide the window up. I lean forward and stick my head through, breathing in my first few breaths of fresh air in god-knows how long.

“That doesn't count!” calls a voice from somewhere behind me.

I groan again and lean further forward. I feel my feet begin to lift from the carpet as my weight on the windowsill begins to pitch to far forward. I have a moment to process how colourful the flowers are in the garden below before they suddenly rush forward to greet me. My nose buries itself deep into the soil and I feel my legs pass by somewhere above me before I am met with the unmistakeable feeling of plants in my backside. Somehow I feel nothing.

I lie there for a while, now staring up at the bottom of the gutters above. I vaguely remember that I was meant to clean them out sometime before all this started. But, as far as I was concerned, it was now another chore that no longer held any meaning to me.

“You look like you could use a hand,” says a new voice suddenly. It's a deep voice that soothes me almost as much as the bass from the television. “Are you alright?”

I shrug.

“Here, reach out and I'll pull you up.”

I oblige, without looking to see who is offering their hand. The sensation on being yanked to my feet makes me dizzy and I close my eyes. When I open them again, I find myself in an empty field surrounded by tall grass. Looking around, I cannot find a sign of whoever had just helped me, all I can see is a lone tree in the distance. I sigh. A part of me wants to attach some kind of half-arsed cliché or metaphor to it. I resist and slowly make my way through the grass towards the towering plant. As I enter its shade, I see a television sitting atop a small table beside the tree's trunk. My lips twitch in what would be the closest thing to a smile my face has yielded in weeks. I plonk myself down on the grass and stare at the cool, glass surface of the blank TV screen. A faint breeze brings goosebumps to my skin.

“You can watch any channel you want,” a voice whispers.

“Any channel I want,” I murmur in response, but otherwise remain staring at the blank screen.

A moment passes and then suddenly the screen flickers into life. I'm staring at an image of a field, with tall grass and a lone tree at its centre. Under the tree is a television. And in front of the television is a man watching an image of field with long grass and lone tree at its centre. I blink peacefully at the image and feel the layer of gunk under my eyes loosen a little. The air I breathe feels very fresh.

“Relax,” whispers a voice and I close my eyes.

The ground seamlessly disappears from below me and I begin to float merrily upward. I keep my eyes closed and let the feeling of weightlessness pass over me. There's a strong scent of soil and flowers. I inhale deeply and suddenly become assailed by a blockage in my airway. I'm choking. Light assaults my eyes as I prise them open. I cough and the blockage clears a little with a violent taste of dirt.

“Is that you, God?” I croak at the brilliant light..

“That's the sun,” cries a voice from above. “And if you think lying on my petunias counts as going outside, you can think again!”

A window slams and I roll onto my side. I'm half in the garden and half on the lawn. I can still taste mud in my sinuses. The sensation makes me crave an ice-cream, which is convenient as and ice-cream truck as rolling by.

I spring to my feet at the sound its happy tune. With bleary eyes, I dash after the truck as it trundles towards the corner of the street.

“Wait!” I croak, almost inaudibly. “I want a soft-serve...”

In my desperate dash after the blessed vehicle, I fail to see a red Volvo turning onto the road. For a second time, I feel my legs overtake me somewhere overhead. This time, pain shoots up my side and through my head as I reacquaint myself with the ground.

“Oh, my god!” comes a cry as a car door slams.

Through half-closed eyes, I can see the ice-cream truck disappearing into the next block.

“Soft-serve...” I whisper.

“What?” asks a voice, suddenly very close to my ear. “Are you alright? Oh, please be alright. I can't  face the thought of having put someone in hospital for the second time this week. Is there anything  I can do?”

“Soft... Serve...” I whisper again.

“I don't understand!”

I shakily point after truck.

“My goodness! You want an ice-cream? At a time like this? OK, wait right here.”

Footsteps move hastily away from me. An engine cries out and a moment later the red Volvo blares past having completed a U-turn. I continue to lie in the street. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but the sun feels warm upon my face. A V of ducks makes their way gracefully across the sky. The Volvo screeches to a halt again suddenly and the door opens.

“Here, I didn't know what flavour you wanted so I got you a mix of all of them.”

A hand pulls me into a seated position and a cone is thrust into my hand.

“Enjoy!”

A second later, the Volvo is gone.

I look down at my ice-cream, the mix of flavours reminding me of something I'd seen on the bottom of my shoe once. My mouth waters. I reach out with a tentative tongue and touch the milky surface. The cone snaps and my soft-serve does an impression of me. With a groan, I trace a finger longingly through the spatter before hefting myself back to my feet. With a slight limp, I make my way back across the lawn to the window. Inside, the couch calls to me. I rattle at the window until it slides upward and then, with a bit of effort, pull myself through. With a graceless somersault, I arrive. Closing the curtains, I notice the lights are back on. I smile.