His hatred for his grandmother had gone up yet another level. Theirs was the perfect example of a relationship gone bad - fast. As he made a slow, painful, and lonely recovery from his extensive injuries in a cold, barely lit room of the cottage that his grandmother had placed him in, he lost a significant amount of weight off of his already-runtish frame over the course of his month-long convalescence. Being completely alone for the most part of his recovery process made it seem as though he had been inside of the room for a much longer period of time. The desolation was excruciating. At most, he saw his grandmother five times over the course of the seven-day week. At whatever time she chose on any given random day, the capricious old lady would pop into the room only to assist him with ingesting a bland but nutritious drinkable soup that she hadn’t put much effort into preparing for him. Although the soup wasn’t the tastiest of meals, Presley was grateful for the warmth that it temporarily brought to his algid body. Accompanying his soup would be a tall glass of water. Every other day of the week, he would go unfed and he would go without drink. Worst of all, being that he was incapable of moving, he was forced to urinate on himself, defecate in his vestments, and sleep atop a blood-macerated sheet. He was irritated, he was dehydrated, and he was in a state of emotional despair. But his grandmother’s main concern wasn’t to keep him comfortable and tidy; she was only concerned with keeping him alive. The deranged hag despised the boy, but at the same time, she loved him with all her heart.
As if his tattered body wasn’t enough for him to be gloomy about, being submersed in his body’s waste matter throughout his recovery process made things that much worse. The adverse reaction of urine combining with feces created a toxic chemical cocktail inside of his garments. The constitution of the skin on and surrounding his genitalia were literally being changed as he lay stagnant in bed. The damage to the sensitive skin in that area of his body was so extensive that Presley was never going to be able to produce children in his lifetime.
The boy was a born fighter. It was just in his blood. From the moment he had regained consciousness following the virulent beating that his grandmother had put on him, he was trying to get up and walk. His initial attempts at pulling himself out of the bed turned out to be pointless. He was simply in too bad of a shape to move a muscle. But after about two weeks had gone by, he discovered that he was able to move his arms and legs further than he could have in comparison to his discouraging previous attempts. The following week, he realized that his physical condition had improved even more. He felt little to no pain as he repeatedly moved his arms up and down and spread and shut his legs over the bedsheet. This significant physical improvement essentially inspired him to attempt to get up and walk once again; but when he tried removing himself from the bed, he fell back flat on his back. His torso still needed a little more time to recuperate from the deep wounds that that section of his body had sustained. But on the bright side of things, it wouldn’t be too much longer before he could fulfill his dream of getting back up on his little feet. In the meantime, all he could do was lie there on the sordid bedsheet and cry. Rare for a child his age, the boy often daydreamt of no longer being in existence. While bedridden, all he thought about was why his mother had left him in the care of such an evil woman. What he wanted more than anything in the world was to go back home.