The last thing I remember before waking up here was a bowling ball sailing toward my face in slow motion. Somewhere in the foggy background of my minds eye I can see my friend, Dave, laughing. What a joker.
My face is so numb that if it werent for the nose hovering between my eyes I would swear that I had no head. I reach up and gently stroke my cheek. Yup -- its still there.
I feebly lift my head and instantly regret it. A spike of agony impales me from my shoulder to my butt, and I slump back, exhausted. All I can see before me are ceiling tiles.
Hes awake, says a voice. I cant place the sex: the speaker is either a very masculine woman or a very effeminite man.
Excellent, replies another -- most certainly a woman, by the light, airy tone of the voice. French accent -- Parisian, to be precise. If I were to guess Id say she grew up in the Eleventh Arrondisement.
My view of the ceiling tiles is suddenly interrupted by the most beautiful face Ive ever seen. Oval with a lightly tanned complexion, a long thin nose framed by clear hazel eyes framed by perfectly arched, brown eyebrows. Definitely Eleventh Arrondisement.
Do you know where you are? she asks softly. Her breath reminds me of lavender.
I say nothing; I imagine the question is rhetorical, considering the circumstances.
You are at the Goodchild Clinic, she says. Do you know your name?
Brunswick, I reply. I can barely enunciate, suddenly aware that I dont know where my gums end and my teeth begin. I feel strangely embarrassed.
The woman suddenly disappears from view and I hear shuffling from across the room. A moment later she reappears.
Brunswick? Are you certain? she asks.
I -- dunno, I reply. I find it difficult to speak. I close my eyes.
Hes passing out, says the woman. From across the room I hear shuffling again, but it is soon drowned out by the pulsating roar of blood in my ears and before I know it oblivion takes me.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 06-07-2002).)