Distraction

As he opened his eyes the lines were fuzzy, indistinct, out of focus. He squeezed his eyes closed twice to force them to work. As he looked farther away the lines became more distinct as they undulated down the road. His attention stayed fixed on the line they took noticing the fine detail of their path; the little kink in the lines path; how the paint was not even spread and at one point he could see odd lumps embedded in it. The line painter must have rushed the job that day, or maybe distraction took his eye from a straight line.
It was strange to lie here so close to the tarmac. Bits of grit that are pushed to the middle of the road by passing traffic were digging into the side of his face. One noticeably large piece, feeling more boulder than small stone, seemed to lodge itself into his cheek like a miss-grown tooth. The road felt slightly warm, he expected it to be colder, but the pieces of grit in his face began to sting distracting him away from his study of road architecture. He realised he couldn't really move to stop the grit digging into him. As he unfocused his attention from the road he started to notice noise around him but couldn't make it out, it was disjointed and hazy. Then he realised he couldn't move his toes. Why he focused on them he was not sure but try as he did he could not move any. His right leg was twisted under the other, at his age he should not be able to twist like that.

Distraction

As his awareness increased he realised his breath was very short, and he was taking small sharp pulls of air through his nose, which felt as if it had cotton wool shoved into it. He tried to move his head a little to raise his eyes but couldn't. His arms? He focused on them. One was tucked under him, the hand pressing into his sternum, the hand twisted right around with the thumb pointing the wrong way. His other arm was splayed out, that shoulder was numb and he couldn't tell where the rest of his arm was. The noise around him was getting louder, he could hear something close to him, warm air breathed over his upturned ear. His right hip felt very warm, warm and strangely wet. Had he wet himself? He hoped not, he was, what was he? He wasn't sure what he was doing today but knew he wouldn't want to have wet himself.
Something warm was draped over him. He wasn't sure what but it felt nice. Where had he been going. He had been home, then he had needed his shopping. He had checked the dogs. Ah the post office, he had needed to go to the post office. So he had gone out, into town, he was walking in, near the library, he had crossed the road.