A tongue of balled tissue paper. A dry mouth. Blurry green blobs, moving. Bipping.
“Are you a witch?” Synch asked.
“I don’t think so,” one of the green blobs said.
“It’s the third time he’s asked that,” said another blob.
A body, well part of one.
“How are you feeling?”
Synch lay on his side.
“Can’t feel much,” he answered. His throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow.
His vision cleared quickly. He looked around frowning.
“You’re in post op,” said the male nurse. He checked Synch’s pulse and blood pressure.
“You’ll be taken to a ward soon. We need to keep an eye on you for a while first.”
Synch rolled onto his back.
“Arrrgh!” He quickly rolled on his side.
“Sit-ups will be off your exercise regime for a while,” said the nurse.
Synch winced. The pain lingered.
His stomach rumbled. It felt empty. It was complaining.
“Feel a bit peculiar in the stomach,” said Synch.
“Nauseous?” said the nurse. He strategically placed a stiff rimmed plastic bag under Synch’s mouth just in time to catch the air expelled with each heave. His body continued convulsing in vomitous motion. A brief conversation between the nurses was blotted out by Synch’s involuntary retching.
“This should stop it,” he heard. He felt a sharp prick in his thigh. Minutes later the vomiting stopped.
His eye-lids felt loaded with lead.
“Might make you a bit drowsy,” said the nurse.
“Apparently, I don’t do drowsy,” Synch said as he sank into a sound sleep.
By Diane L Wood
My Bio: http://write-intention.com/Diane_L_Wood.html
A Short Short Story: http://easywaytowrite.19.forumer.com/viewtopic.php?t=9
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