Fishing in Beirut

Djinn wrote a letter, and then rewrote it. He wanted to send this to a newspaper, to arrive the day after the event, so it had to be precise, and legible. It would land in the offices of Le Monde when his body was charred. He could not let them think it was a random or meaningless thing.
He had terrible pain in his back, and stretched gingerly, feeling ugly friction and strain. Judging by his discomfort, it might be something more than a twist. He reached around to rub at the area, massaging as best he could. Then he stretched too far, and the pain nearly made him cry out.
Young people in the hallway surprised him for a second, their voices and laughter passing by his door in a rush. They were running down the stairs into freedom. He breathed and stood completely upright. Awareness of pain was bringing more pain in his shoulders and legs.
Ninety minutes passed with him relatively immobile. It was serious effort to walk to the bathroom and piss. Fortune or the lack of it dictated the agony didn’t cease, but instead remained quite active, feeding off itself, adding to his distress. Finally he managed to lie down on the bed and try to sleep.
When he awoke, not having really slept any, the immediate impact of his predicament hit him hard. He couldn’t get up. He was sure of this, knew it instantly, and lay there inert, gripped by a genuine paralysis. It wasn’t even painful anymore, merely numb and disconnected from his head.
Silence and darkness were all around him. He prayed through the silence and darkness and towards Allah. If it was decided he would next week do this, that he would take revenge for his country and its suffering, he must walk, and function. Only by bodily control could he carry out his task.
He focused all his energy on rising. His muscles shook, but he failed in his attempts to sit. Sweat broke out on his forehead, tiny helpless beads, and the pain from earlier came flooding back from the force. Never in his life had he known such incapacity.
He sat up eventually. He pushed himself into a position that was a crouch or a hunch. He stared straight ahead into blackness not seeing a thing. It was a struggle to believe, but a struggle he knew he would win.