The Doctor nervously entered a side ward where a middle-aged woman lay peacefully in bed. Head wounds were always difficult. They created as much smoke as they did fire in their Grand Guignol of grotesquery. They had cleaned her injuries well, one of the nurses may even have combed her hair.
Only the constant beeping of monitors disturbed the stillness.
"Oh, what a mess," he murmured as he sat down. "Why do I always let humans get caught in the middle of my battles?"
He looked at her round face, framed with greying brown hair. Below her tafelshrew nose, her small mouth, usually firing verbal barbs in strident tones, was silent. Her doctors told him that she was in a coma following the accident. They suggested a familiar voice might help bring her back from the indifferent arms of Morpheus.
Despite protesting that a family member would work better, the Doctor had discovered that her husband was away on business, whilst her children lived abroad. He was the only one. A veritable Don Quixote. A stranger.
Keeping such unworthy thoughts to himself, he addressed her like a jolly uncle who is trying to liven up the post-Christmas dinner torpor with another tall tale.
"It seems I'm your best hope for recovery. A familiar voice… a familiar tale? Yes, I think we’ll start there..."
Merci pour la lecture!
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