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His room contains the only window in the building, something he used to appreciate, but these days, John finds himself experiencing a sick form of jealousy towards his lodgers and their bricked-up windows. After all, the lodgers cannot look down at Briar Road, hazy as the evening fog settles in like a blanket, only to be gripped by sudden, infuriating panic and spinning around, a pathetic part of him expecting to see Joan right behind him, fuming and grabbing whatever is nearby to throw at him hard enough to bruise, not stopping despite his desperate attempts to calm her down.
John hates feeling so vulnerable (how did a military man become so weak, useless and unable to stand up to his own wife?), but it is undeniable how the window reminds him too much of that night, of the shouting and screaming, the fire spreading through the room, smoke burning his throat, his wife glaring at him before throwing a knife right at him, pressing his back against the cold glass in a futile attempt to run away, but his blasted leg and sudden fear rooting him to the spot; honestly, he might as well brick the bloody thing up—having no natural light is a small price to pay if he can live in his own home without the goddamn window bringing back so many awful memories.