dukiex3

Well, I've been working on an umm novel I guess, I really don't know what it's going to turn out to be, and was wondering if anyone would like to comment/criticize my work. Please be brutally honest.


Briskly walking back and forth across the room, he contemplated every action over and over, over and over. Everything was in sync, two heart beats to every tick of the clock. Unusually fast, yes, but nonetheless something to hold on to. He wasn’t used to this; routine had always been his thing, spontaneity always seemed a danger. The ticking of the clock provided comfort, but he realized that in no way does comfort equate to survival. With no choice left, he gathered every piece of courage that lingered in his being, stopped walking and cocked his head sideways to get a clear view of the clock. Was it possible for time to freeze? He stood there watching keenly, waiting to hear the familiar tick. His entire stay in the room was dependent on that tick, where had it gone? His sanity was dependent on that tick. Control was what he was known for; everything was always under control. Always sharp, he was quick to mentally criticize his mistakes. So that was the problem with constant control, its absence renders you helpless. In disbelief, he crouched on his knees and once again peered at the clock. The longer it remained stagnant, the more he felt his life escape him. Devastated, the man closed his eyes and held his breath; there it was, the familiarity of the tick. The noise that once gave him reassurance became the birth to his downfall.


It was a Sunday, why the hell was his alarm on? Agitated, Greg lodged his pillow at the mechanical device that had so many times ruined the prefect dream. Who wouldn’t be angry at the interruption?; Jessica Alba, himself, a gorgeous beach, and no one to be seen for miles… Disgruntled, Greg stated to pull himself off his bed to shut off the damned clock. Midway through his effort, he waited for the dreaded beeeeep until he realized it wasn’t there. Rethinking the situation, he decided it must have been the pain in his head that woke him up, the pounding seemed loud enough to wake a large bear. He’d just have Maurine give him a few Advil, or Tylenol, whichever he had, once he got downstairs. Although he was angry that his headache interrupted his favorite dream, he knew today was going to be a good day; he felt it in every bone in his body. Excitedly, he started his morning ritual. It had always amused his cronies how wound up he got over the simplest routine; it wasn’t his fault, routine was just natural happiness in his blood, music to his ears. Patiently, he rubbed his left hand across the right side of his face three times and then vice-versa. Next, he took both of his hands and ran them through the thickness of his hair. And finally, he gave himself two good slaps on each of his cheeks. Ritual was the only thing that really woke him up, cold showers, morning jogs, a cup of coffee—you name it, it didn’t work on Greg. It wasn’t even a matter of actuality; it was more so his stubborn its-my-way-or-no-one’s attitude that tricked him into believing this worked. As he hurriedly leaned over to push himself off his bed, he found himself in the midst of a nauseatic attack. Taken aback, his body lunged itself back onto his bed so that he was staring at the checkered pattern of the plain white ceiling tiles. He could never stand plain patterns, where the hell was he? Did Maurine have them remodel while he was away? The nerve of that woman, she was obviously overpaid, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and just happily do her damn job? Anger exacerbates a situation, never helps it, Greg calmly repeated to himself.
Wanting a clearer view of where exactly he was, Greg bunched up all the unusually soft pillows on the bed and shoved them behind his back so he had something to lean on. Anxious to see something besides the horrid pattern of the ceiling, he moved his eyes around to make a mental map of the room; though, he felt a sudden burst of nausea overcome him once again. The room was filled with white cabinets, white machines, white drapes, white sheets,--there wasn't much that wasn't white. Why the hell would anyone leave him in a room that’s engulfed in nothing but white? With no other solution, he resorted to childish practices and closed his eyes, this discomfort was unbearable. Without any idea of what to do, he closed his eyes and pretended to be where his dream had left off…
Finally, he heard steps followed by three loud knocks outside of his door. That made him happy, three was a good number. The old Disney tune popped into his "Three is the magic number…"
“Can I come in?” A high-pitched voice asked.
“Please do.” Greg replied.
Afraid to open his eyes, he uncomfortably waited to hear the sound again.
“How you feelin’, hun?” The voice called back.
Because of the reassurance in her motherly tone, Greg assumed it safe to open his eyes. Though, before he answered her question, Greg gave the woman a quick mental background check; something he had learned to be vital in personal relations. Scanning her body, he noticed a small “Hi My Name is” pin on her apron, squinting, he made out her name. After the scan, he decided that “Betty” must be in her early 30s, she had a Southern accent (which she was trying very hard to cover up), wore heavy makeup, she was tall, thin, and had an unexpected startling Hollywood glow to her.
“Just fine, thank you.” Greg answered.
“You sure about that, pumpkin?”
Nervously, Greg stared at the floor waiting for her to say something else.
“Well Sir, I don’t have much time for you to answer, so I guess I’ll just run down and bring you back some breakfast.” Betty said walking down the door.
Unsure of what to say, and more importantly, unsure of where he was, Greg decided it best to at least make sure that his discomfort wouldn't rise to a higher level. “Wait, please make sure that nothing on the plate touches anything else, oh and, don’t bring me anything white.” He replied in a stifled manner.
“Aren’t you an interesting one?” The nurse asked laughing half way down the hall.
While he waited for "Betty" to return, he grabbed the bundle of magazines placed on an ugly pale night stand next to the bed and flipped through them until he sorted through the ones that seemed remotely interesting. After leafing through the somewhat acceptable magazines, he found his favorite, the Wall Street Journal. The only thing worth anyone’s time was what he held in his hand; he wondered how Americans could stand such other crap. Honestly though, how could he live in the finest country in the world and be surrounded by such idiots? But, he thought, to each his own.
“Can you believe Jess dyed her hair?” Betty asked walking in as she saw the bundled up magazines in Greg’s hands. “I can’t believe she did that, the only appeal she ever had, had been of a blue-eyed blonde-haired American girl-next-door.” So, Betty was one of the many idiots that crowded the streets of the U.S. Did it really matter what color her hair was?
Not knowing how to answer, what to say, or who she was, Greg concentrated on Betty's face as if the emerging wrinkles on her forehead would give him a sign to where he was. The story was not on her forehead, so he desperately moved onto her eyes. Somber, blue, deep-sea-like, what was she doing here? Why wasn't she on a runway in Paris or on a movie set in Hollywood?
"You know darlin'," she mocked in a flirty tone, "staring at myoh-so-beautiful- eyes ain't gunna get you nothin. You got something to ask, dear lord, just ask."
Still wondering what to say, he looked down at the palm of his hands and just hoped that she would do something else, time spent talking was money wasted. She walked over and pulled up his chin, he stared at her as a newborn stares at his mother.
“Are you gunna talk to me, or should I head back outta the room and leave you to yourself, Sir?” She asked, putting emphasis on ‘sir’.
Deciding that it was either talk or be alone with the white room, he cutely responded with a drawl “Ma’am, I’d greatly ‘preciate it if you stayed here with me, I mean it gets awful lonely by myself.” Blinking his eyes as a child of five would, Greg winsomely looked up at her.
“Don’t you mock me!” Betty shrieked, allowing her Southern accent to take over her speech. Greg wondered what she had against her accent, he thought it was attractive. At least he knew he would have fun with her.
Chuckling, he responded, “Don’t be offended, I needed some assurance that you'd stick around. Please, stay here?”
Betty turned to look at the ceiling; Greg wondered how people could stand to do that. “Apologize first.” she demanded.
“I’m sorry.” Greg responded sincerely.
Not suspecting his response, Betty was already half-way out the door. But, she turned back around with a smile and sat down in the chair next to Greg.
Wanting an answer, Greg stated “All joking aside, where in the hell am I?”
“Well…” Betty started. She didn’t know how to explain; didn’t he know where he was? It seemed as if he had known all along… Scratching her head, she continued “Sir, they don’t really tell us nurses much, but I can share what I’ve gathered from around the hospital. Let’s see, your secretary, umm a Miss Norelle?, found you passed out in your office late at night.. they brought you in at around 1 p.m. You were under cardiac arrest... shock induced.”
It took Greg a while for everything to set in; he hadn’t remembered anything besides feeling like he had just lost everything. Cardiac arrest, strange, it must have been serious, Greg never got sick. Concerned, Betty put her hand over his and waited for him to speak.
“Was it serious? When will I get to go back home? I cannot leave work for more than a few hours. I’ve probably already lost half my life’s earnings. I’ve gotta go back, when are they gunna let me out?” Greg inquired.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you. Though, Dr. Elohels should be in for your consultation later this afternoon. But for now, I suggest you relax and forget about work. The last thing you want is to be in here longer than you have to.” Betty replied.
Greg smiled at her accent, somewhere in the midst of their conversation she completely let the run-of-the-mill-southern-belle quality about her escape. He enjoyed Betty’s company, this was a rarity; not very often did he like to be around others.



Dr. Elohels was the kind of man Greg had always admired, the kind of man he wanted the young interns and apprentices at work to be like. He was dressed sharply, articulate, friendly, and most importantly, he walked with confidence.
“Good evening, Mr. Mikhani. I’d like to introduce myself, I’m Dr. Elohels, the man who will be providing you with all medical care during your stay at this hospital.” Dr. Elohels walked over to the side of Greg’s bed and offered his hand. He had a strong, firm grasp, once again reaffirming Greg’s thoughts of his confidence.

dukiex3

lol.. anyone?

Azmakna

it scares me too much to read... my eyes, my eyes... they bleed

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

chris54321

I don't have time to read it but if you want people to do it, you need to format it better. Lines between paragraphs. Looking at a solid block of text isn't going to encourage anyone.

__________________
"What? Weapon ineffective? I need a BIGGER SWORD!!" - Minsc, Baldur's Gate II

"My blood cries out for the vengeance of my people's blood, which can only be repaid with twice as much blood! Or maybe three times as much blood! Like, if you went to hell and it was full of blood, and that blood was on fire, and it was raining blood, then maybe THAT would be enough blood. But, uh, probably not." - Blood Mage, The Frozen Throne

dukiex3

blah, lol. It was all fine but then I had to edit and it got all screwed up, didn't have time to fix it.

I guess I shall re-post.



Briskly walking back and forth across the room, he contemplated every action over and over, over and over. Everything was in sync, two heart beats to every tick of the clock. Unusually fast, yes, but nonetheless something to hold on to. He wasn’t used to this; routine had always been his thing, spontaneity always seemed a danger. The ticking of the clock provided comfort, but he realized that in no way does comfort equate to survival. With no choice left, he gathered every piece of courage that lingered in his being, stopped walking and cocked his head sideways to get a clear view of the clock. Was it possible for time to freeze? He stood there watching keenly, waiting to hear the familiar tick. His entire stay in the room was dependent on that tick, where had it gone? His sanity was dependent on that tick. Control was what he was known for; everything was always under control. Always sharp, he was quick to mentally criticize his mistakes. So that was the problem with constant control, its absence renders you helpless. In disbelief, he crouched on his knees and once again peered at the clock. The longer it remained stagnant, the more he felt his life escape him. Devastated, the man closed his eyes and held his breath; there it was, the familiarity of the tick. The noise that once gave him reassurance became the birth to his downfall.

It was a Sunday, why the hell was his alarm on? Agitated, Greg lodged his pillow at the mechanical device that had so many times ruined the prefect dream. Who wouldn’t be angry at the interruption?; Jessica Alba, himself, a gorgeous beach, and no one to be seen for miles… Disgruntled, Greg stated to pull himself off his bed to shut off the damned clock. Midway through his effort, he waited for the dreaded beeeeep until he realized it wasn’t there. Rethinking the situation, he decided it must have been the pain in his head that woke him up, the pounding seemed loud enough to wake a large bear. He’d just have Maurine give him a few Advil, or Tylenol, whichever he had, once he got downstairs. Although he was angry that his headache interrupted his favorite dream, he knew today was going to be a good day; he felt it in every bone in his body. Excitedly, he started his morning ritual. It had always amused his cronies how wound up he got over the simplest routine; it wasn’t his fault, routine was just natural happiness in his blood, music to his ears. Patiently, he rubbed his left hand across the right side of his face three times and then vice-versa. Next, he took both of his hands and ran them through the thickness of his hair. And finally, he gave himself two good slaps on each of his cheeks. Ritual was the only thing that really woke him up, cold showers, morning jogs, a cup of coffee—you name it, it didn’t work on Greg. It wasn’t even a matter of actuality; it was more so his stubborn its-my-way-or-no-one’s attitude that tricked him into believing this worked. As he hurriedly leaned over to push himself off his bed, he found himself in the midst of a nauseatic attack. Taken aback, his body lunged itself back onto his bed so that he was staring at the checkered pattern of the plain white ceiling tiles. He could never stand plain patterns, where the hell was he? Did Maurine have them remodel while he was away? The nerve of that woman, she was obviously overpaid, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and just happily do her damn job? Anger exacerbates a situation, never helps it, Greg calmly repeated to himself.
Wanting a clearer view of where exactly he was, Greg bunched up all the unusually soft pillows on the bed and shoved them behind his back so he had something to lean on. Anxious to see something besides the horrid pattern of the ceiling, he moved his eyes around to make a mental map of the room; though, he felt a sudden burst of nausea overcome him once again. The room was filled with white cabinets, white machines, white drapes, white sheets,--there wasn't much that wasn't white. Why the hell would anyone leave him in a room that’s engulfed in nothing but white? With no other solution, he resorted to childish practices and closed his eyes, this discomfort was unbearable. Without any idea of what to do, he closed his eyes and pretended to be where his dream had left off…
Finally, he heard steps followed by three loud knocks outside of his door. That made him happy, three was a good number. The old Disney tune popped into his "Three is the magic number…"
“Can I come in?” A high-pitched voice asked.
“Please do.” Greg replied.
Afraid to open his eyes, he uncomfortably waited to hear the sound again.
“How you feelin’, hun?” The voice called back.
Because of the reassurance in her motherly tone, Greg assumed it safe to open his eyes. Though, before he answered her question, Greg gave the woman a quick mental background check; something he had learned to be vital in personal relations. Scanning her body, he noticed a small “Hi My Name is” pin on her apron, squinting, he made out her name. After the scan, he decided that “Betty” must be in her early 30s, she had a Southern accent (which she was trying very hard to cover up), wore heavy makeup, she was tall, thin, and had an unexpected startling Hollywood glow to her.
“Just fine, thank you.” Greg answered.
“You sure about that, pumpkin?”
Nervously, Greg stared at the floor waiting for her to say something else.
“Well Sir, I don’t have much time for you to answer, so I guess I’ll just run down and bring you back some breakfast.” Betty said walking down the door.
Unsure of what to say, and more importantly, unsure of where he was, Greg decided it best to at least make sure that his discomfort wouldn't rise to a higher level. “Wait, please make sure that nothing on the plate touches anything else, oh and, don’t bring me anything white.” He replied in a stifled manner.
“Aren’t you an interesting one?” The nurse asked laughing half way down the hall.
While he waited for "Betty" to return, he grabbed the bundle of magazines placed on an ugly pale night stand next to the bed and flipped through them until he sorted through the ones that seemed remotely interesting. After leafing through the somewhat acceptable magazines, he found his favorite, the Wall Street Journal. The only thing worth anyone’s time was what he held in his hand; he wondered how Americans could stand such other crap. Honestly though, how could he live in the finest country in the world and be surrounded by such idiots? But, he thought, to each his own.
“Can you believe Jess dyed her hair?” Betty asked walking in as she saw the bundled up magazines in Greg’s hands. “I can’t believe she did that, the only appeal she ever had, had been of a blue-eyed blonde-haired American girl-next-door.” So, Betty was one of the many idiots that crowded the streets of the U.S. Did it really matter what color her hair was?
Not knowing how to answer, what to say, or who she was, Greg concentrated on Betty's face as if the emerging wrinkles on her forehead would give him a sign to where he was. The story was not on her forehead, so he desperately moved onto her eyes. Somber, blue, deep-sea-like, what was she doing here? Why wasn't she on a runway in Paris or on a movie set in Hollywood?
"You know darlin'," she mocked in a flirty tone, "staring at myoh-so-beautiful- eyes ain't gunna get you nothin. You got something to ask, dear lord, just ask."
Still wondering what to say, he looked down at the palm of his hands and just hoped that she would do something else, time spent talking was money wasted. She walked over and pulled up his chin, he stared at her as a newborn stares at his mother.
“Are you gunna talk to me, or should I head back outta the room and leave you to yourself, Sir?” She asked, putting emphasis on ‘sir’.
Deciding that it was either talk or be alone with the white room, he cutely responded with a drawl “Ma’am, I’d greatly ‘preciate it if you stayed here with me, I mean it gets awful lonely by myself.” Blinking his eyes as a child of five would, Greg winsomely looked up at her.
“Don’t you mock me!” Betty shrieked, allowing her Southern accent to take over her speech. Greg wondered what she had against her accent, he thought it was attractive. At least he knew he would have fun with her.
Chuckling, he responded, “Don’t be offended, I needed some assurance that you'd stick around. Please, stay here?”
Betty turned to look at the ceiling; Greg wondered how people could stand to do that. “Apologize first.” she demanded.
“I’m sorry.” Greg responded sincerely.
Not suspecting his response, Betty was already half-way out the door. But, she turned back around with a smile and sat down in the chair next to Greg.
Wanting an answer, Greg stated “All joking aside, where in the hell am I?”
“Well…” Betty started. She didn’t know how to explain; didn’t he know where he was? It seemed as if he had known all along… Scratching her head, she continued “Sir, they don’t really tell us nurses much, but I can share what I’ve gathered from around the hospital. Let’s see, your secretary, umm a Miss Norelle?, found you passed out in your office late at night.. they brought you in at around 1 p.m. You were under cardiac arrest... shock induced.”
It took Greg a while for everything to set in; he hadn’t remembered anything besides feeling like he had just lost everything. Cardiac arrest, strange, it must have been serious, Greg never got sick. Concerned, Betty put her hand over his and waited for him to speak.
“Was it serious? When will I get to go back home? I cannot leave work for more than a few hours. I’ve probably already lost half my life’s earnings. I’ve gotta go back, when are they gunna let me out?” Greg inquired.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you. Though, Dr. Elohels should be in for your consultation later this afternoon. But for now, I suggest you relax and forget about work. The last thing you want is to be in here longer than you have to.” Betty replied.
Greg smiled at her accent, somewhere in the midst of their conversation she completely let the run-of-the-mill-southern-belle quality about her escape. He enjoyed Betty’s company, this was a rarity; not very often did he like to be around others.



Dr. Elohels was the kind of man Greg had always admired, the kind of man he wanted the young interns and apprentices at work to be like. He was dressed sharply, articulate, friendly, and most importantly, he walked with confidence.
“Good evening, Mr. Mikhani. I’d like to introduce myself, I’m Dr. Elohels, the man who will be providing you with all medical care during your stay at this hospital.” Dr. Elohels walked over to the side of Greg’s bed and offered his hand. He had a strong, firm grasp, once again reaffirming Greg’s thoughts of his confidence.

dukiex3

noooooo, it didn't work. motherf... I'll fix it all later I guess. lol

dukiex3

Briskly walking back and forth across the room, he contemplated every action over and over, over and over. Everything was in sync, two heart beats to every tick of the clock. Unusually fast, yes, but nonetheless something to hold on to. He wasn’t used to this; routine had always been his thing, spontaneity always seemed a danger. The ticking of the clock provided comfort, but he realized that in no way does comfort equate to survival. With no choice left, he gathered every piece of courage that lingered in his being, stopped walking and cocked his head sideways to get a clear view of the clock. Was it possible for time to freeze? He stood there watching keenly, waiting to hear the familiar tick. His entire stay in the room was dependent on that tick, where had it gone? His sanity was dependent on that tick. Control was what he was known for; everything was always under control. Always sharp, he was quick to mentally criticize his mistakes. So that was the problem with constant control, its absence renders you helpless. In disbelief, he crouched on his knees and once again peered at the clock. The longer it remained stagnant, the more he felt his life escape him. Devastated, the man closed his eyes and held his breath; there it was, the familiarity of the tick. The noise that once gave him reassurance became the birth to his downfall.


It was a Sunday, why the hell was his alarm on? Agitated, Greg lodged his pillow at the mechanical device that had so many times ruined the prefect dream. Who wouldn’t be angry at the interruption?; Jessica Alba, himself, a gorgeous beach, and no one to be seen for miles… Disgruntled, Greg stated to pull himself off his bed to shut off the damned clock. Midway through his effort, he waited for the dreaded beeeeep until he realized it wasn’t there. Rethinking the situation, he decided it must have been the pain in his head that woke him up, the pounding seemed loud enough to wake a large bear. He’d just have Maurine give him a few Advil, or Tylenol, whichever he had, once he got downstairs. Although he was angry that his headache interrupted his favorite dream, he knew today was going to be a good day; he felt it in every bone in his body. Excitedly, he started his morning ritual. It had always amused his cronies how wound up he got over the simplest routine; it wasn’t his fault, routine was just natural happiness in his blood, music to his ears. Patiently, he rubbed his left hand across the right side of his face three times and then vice-versa. Next, he took both of his hands and ran them through the thickness of his hair. And finally, he gave himself two good slaps on each of his cheeks. Ritual was the only thing that really woke him up, cold showers, morning jogs, a cup of coffee—you name it, it didn’t work on Greg. It wasn’t even a matter of actuality; it was more so his stubborn its-my-way-or-no-one’s attitude that tricked him into believing this worked. As he hurriedly leaned over to push himself off his bed, he found himself in the midst of a nauseatic attack. Taken aback, his body lunged itself back onto his bed so that he was staring at the checkered pattern of the plain white ceiling tiles. He could never stand plain patterns, where the hell was he? Did Maurine have them remodel while he was away? The nerve of that woman, she was obviously overpaid, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and just happily do her damn job? Anger exacerbates a situation, never helps it, Greg calmly repeated to himself.


Wanting a clearer view of where exactly he was, Greg bunched up all the unusually soft pillows on the bed and shoved them behind his back so he had something to lean on. Anxious to see something besides the horrid pattern of the ceiling, he moved his eyes around to make a mental map of the room; though, he felt a sudden burst of nausea overcome him once again. The room was filled with white cabinets, white machines, white drapes, white sheets,--there wasn't much that wasn't white. Why the hell would anyone leave him in a room that’s engulfed in nothing but white? With no other solution, he resorted to childish practices and closed his eyes, this discomfort was unbearable. Without any idea of what to do, he closed his eyes and pretended to be where his dream had left off…
Finally, he heard steps followed by three loud knocks outside of his door. That made him happy, three was a good number. The old Disney tune popped into his "Three is the magic number…"


“Can I come in?” A high-pitched voice asked.

“Please do.” Greg replied.

Afraid to open his eyes, he uncomfortably waited to hear the sound again.

“How you feelin’, hun?” The voice called back.

Because of the reassurance in her motherly tone, Greg assumed it safe to open his eyes. Though, before he answered her question, Greg gave the woman a quick mental background check; something he had learned to be vital in personal relations. Scanning her body, he noticed a small “Hi My Name is” pin on her apron, squinting, he made out her name. After the scan, he decided that “Betty” must be in her early 30s, she had a Southern accent (which she was trying very hard to cover up), wore heavy makeup, she was tall, thin, and had an unexpected startling Hollywood glow to her.

“Just fine, thank you.” Greg answered.

“You sure about that, pumpkin?”

Nervously, Greg stared at the floor waiting for her to say something else.
“Well Sir, I don’t have much time for you to answer, so I guess I’ll just run down and bring you back some breakfast.” Betty said walking out the door.

Unsure of what to say, and more importantly, unsure of where he was, Greg decided it best to at least make sure that his discomfort wouldn't rise to a higher level. “Wait, please make sure that nothing on the plate touches anything else, oh and, don’t bring me anything white.” He replied in a stifled manner.

“Aren’t you an interesting one?” The nurse asked laughing half way down the hall.

While he waited for "Betty" to return, he grabbed the bundle of magazines placed on an ugly pale night stand next to the bed and flipped through them until he sorted through the ones that seemed remotely interesting. After leafing through the somewhat acceptable magazines, he found his favorite, the Wall Street Journal. The only thing worth anyone’s time was what he held in his hand; he wondered how Americans could stand such other crap. Honestly though, how could he live in the finest country in the world and be surrounded by such idiots? But, he thought, to each his own.


“Can you believe Jess dyed her hair?” Betty asked walking in as she saw the bundled up magazines in Greg’s hands. “I can’t believe she did that, the only appeal she ever had, had been of a blue-eyed blonde-haired American girl-next-door.” So, Betty was one of the many idiots that crowded the streets of the U.S. Did it really matter what color her hair was?

Not knowing how to answer, what to say, or who she was, Greg concentrated on Betty's face as if the emerging wrinkles on her forehead would give him a sign to where he was. The story was not on her forehead, so he desperately moved onto her eyes. Somber, blue, deep-sea-like, what was she doing here? Why wasn't she on a runway in Paris or on a movie set in Hollywood?


"You know darlin'," she mocked in a flirty tone, "staring at myoh-so-beautiful- eyes ain't gunna get you nothin. You got something to ask, dear lord, just ask."

Still wondering what to say, he looked down at the palm of his hands and just hoped that she would do something else, time spent talking was money wasted. She walked over and pulled up his chin, he stared at her as a newborn stares at his mother.


“Are you gunna talk to me, or should I head back outta the room and leave you to yourself, Sir?” She asked, putting emphasis on ‘sir’.

Deciding that it was either talk or be alone with the white room, he cutely responded with a drawl “Ma’am, I’d greatly ‘preciate it if you stayed here with me, I mean it gets awful lonely by myself.” Blinking his eyes as a child of five would, Greg winsomely looked up at her.

“Don’t you mock me!” Betty shrieked, allowing her Southern accent to take over her speech. Greg wondered what she had against her accent, he thought it was attractive. At least he knew he would have fun with her.
Chuckling, he responded, “Don’t be offended, I needed some assurance that you'd stick around. Please, stay here?”

Betty turned to look at the ceiling; Greg wondered how people could stand to do that. “Apologize first.” she demanded.

“I’m sorry.” Greg responded sincerely.

Not suspecting his response, Betty was already half-way out the door. But, she turned back around with a smile and sat down in the chair next to Greg.


Wanting an answer, Greg stated “All joking aside, where in the hell am I?”
“Well…” Betty started. She didn’t know how to explain; didn’t he know where he was? It seemed as if he had known all along… Scratching her head, she continued “Sir, they don’t really tell us nurses much, but I can share what I’ve gathered from around the hospital. Let’s see, your secretary, umm a Miss Norelle?, found you passed out in your office late at night.. they brought you in at around 1 p.m. You were under cardiac arrest... shock induced.”


It took Greg a while for everything to set in; he hadn’t remembered anything besides feeling like he had just lost everything. Cardiac arrest, strange, it must have been serious, Greg never got sick. Concerned, Betty put her hand over his and waited for him to speak.


“Was it serious? When will I get to go back home? I cannot leave work for more than a few hours. I’ve probably already lost half my life’s earnings. I’ve gotta go back, when are they gunna let me out?” Greg inquired.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you. Though, Dr. Elohels should be in for your consultation later this afternoon. But for now, I suggest you relax and forget about work. The last thing you want is to be in here longer than you have to.” Betty replied.

Greg smiled at her accent, somewhere in the midst of their conversation she completely let the run-of-the-mill-southern-belle quality about her escape. He enjoyed Betty’s company, this was a rarity; not very often did he like to be around others.


Dr. Elohels was the kind of man Greg had always admired, the kind of man he wanted the young interns and apprentices at work to be like. He was dressed sharply, articulate, friendly, and most importantly, he walked with confidence.

“Good evening, Mr. Mikhani. I’d like to introduce myself, I’m Dr. Elohels, the man who will be providing you with all medical care during your stay at this hospital.” Dr. Elohels walked over to the side of Greg’s bed and offered his hand. He had a strong, firm grasp, once again reaffirming Greg’s thoughts of his confidence.

dukiex3

It wouldn't let me indent, but I hope that's better...