Rumors of Her Death by J M Donellan EPUB & PDF

Rumors of Her Death by J M Donellan EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online

• Status: Available for Free Download
• Author: J M Donellan
• Language: English
• Genre:Humorous Literary Fiction
• Format: PDF / EPUB
• Size: 2 MB
• Price: Free

I feel euphoric, which doesn’t bode well. Serotonin floods my mind. I
examine the room: clinical white walls, sharp angles, the heavy scent of
industrial cleaning chemicals. The word arrives in my mind like a raindrop
striking my skull: “hospital.” Okay then, that’s a step up from the morgue
(or a short walk at least). An IV drip leads to my left arm. I wrench the
cannula out, unleashing a tiny geyser of blood. I press the crisp white sheets
to the wound, turning them a muddy red-brown as I try and shake the drug
haze. I lift the sheets and examine the damage, immediately regretting my
decision. I wonder if the scarring will be permanent. That could be a
problem. People tend to notice scars, and I’m not sure I can survive an
Australian summer in long pants. Also, my left wrist is handcuffed to the
bed.

So there’s that.
I touch the bandaged flesh, and the pain, though morphine-muted, is still
severe enough to catapult me back into the memory of screeching steel and
howling horns. They say that when you approach death your whole life
flashes before your eyes. But as I sailed through the air towards oblivion, I
didn’t see my whole life, just the one moment ad infinitum. You in that dress,
the things you said, flashing over and over until finally I struck the ground
and was enveloped by the all-consuming roar of the infinite l—
“You’re awake!” The doctor’s voice wrenches me out of my memory.
She picks up the chart from the end of my bed.

“Evi-dently…yes.” The words stumble out of my mouth like wounded
soldiers. A cop pokes his head around the corner, then disappears again.
“Please ignore our uniformed friend. Can I start with your name?”
“It’s…” I come up blank for a few terrifying moments, then finally
manage to pluck a name from the detritus-littered wasteland of my psyche.

“…Eric. Eric Blair.”
“Great to meet you, Eric! My name is Dr. Jill Sandersen. Do you mind if
I ask you a few questions?” She has the kind of perky, educated voice that
belongs on a kids’ science program where they explain wave-particle
duality over hip-hop beats.

“Sure.”
“Can you tell me what month it is?”
“September.”
“Great! What city are we in?”
I feel like I’m on the world’s most depressing game show. “Sydney.”
“Very good, who is the current prime minister?”
“Some underqualified populist muppet who’ll soon be kicked out in a
leadership spill, if history is anything to go by.”
“Also correct, unfortunately. Do you remember what happened to you?”
“I was in an accident. A car swerved and braked in front of me. I ran
into the back of it and was thrown off my motorcycle.”

“Good. Your speech and memory seem clear and ordered. That’s an
excellent sign. It’s a good thing you invested in proper safety equipment.
You wouldn’t believe how many motorcyclists we get through these doors
who hit the road in shorts and thongs.”
Even after nine years, I still can’t get used to the Australian usage of
“thongs” to describe footwear.

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