Vor 10 Stunden
Tony
Very gradually, the darkness lifts; an endless vault – fog wafts through the space – and at the very end, radiant brightness. I float very slowly toward this light. The fog gradually dissipates. It gradually becomes brighter.
Indistinct, blurry figures float in the light, waving to me. I feel infinitely comfortable, almost happy, and I draw ever closer to the figures.
A monotonous humming is everywhere. A lone figure breaks away from the others and floats purposefully toward me with its arm outstretched. It has no face, but I know exactly who it is. My joy is overwhelming. I stretch out my hand and can almost touch the figure...
Suddenly, the room darkens, and a sudden, freshening wind swirls the remaining mists, the figures, the radiant light—and I am alone again in my dark vault. The humming abruptly dies away, and silence surrounds me.
I long for the light and the individual figure.
I suddenly feel incredibly sad.
Then blackness surrounds me again.
An unpleasant pale light blinds me—even through my closed eyelids. I try to roll my head back against the pillow, but I can't move. Something is holding me in this position.
Who am I, anyway? Why can't I remember anything at all? Why doesn't anyone turn off this damn diffuse light? And what's that incessant, irritating beeping sound?
Thank God, everything is going black around me again…
There's that pale light again. I try to open my eyes – and this time it works. Only very gradually, and only a little bit, but still. I can't move, but my gaze scans my surroundings.
Aha, I'm lying in a hospital bed; cables and tubes are dangling all over me. The annoying beeping has changed—somehow louder and faster.
Hospital—so I'm sick! But why? I've never been seriously ill!
I suddenly remember a bang… screeching brakes… then silence.
And Thomas, who is sitting on the passenger side, is no longer moving.
Oh God, we've had an accident! Where is Thomas? WHERE IS MY SWEETHEART??
The beeping increases to an infernal screech.
Darkness…
"I think he's waking up, Professor."
A very pleasant voice brings me back to that bright, pale light. I open my eyes, which is quite easy this time, and look around. So I can also move my head a little again.
Aha, a typical intensive care unit room, diffused light, machines, tubes, and cables everywhere you look. Next to my bed is a kind of 'junkie bar'; a whole battery of IV containers on a chrome stand, all full of chemicals and connected to a drip via individual dosage controls – and this drip runs via a central tube under my bed covers. I can't see the IV access, but since I did my extra-, er... community service in a hospital, I'm familiar with all these torture instruments. So the drug mix runs directly via a 'port' to my blood pump... er... heart, I mean, of course.
Two men in scrubs are standing at my bedside; one about fifty and apparently the chief physician; the other perhaps in his early twenties and either an intern or an operating room nurse.
And pretty cute, as my 'gay scan' immediately indicates! So, on the open-ended sweetness scale, he's at least a '7'. But first, I have to figure out what's actually going on with me.
The simplest thing: ask, because as we all know, people who speak can be helped.
So I open my mouth and ask, "Hey, guys, nice to see you. What actually happened?"
Anyway, I'd like to ask this. But not even a croak comes out of my mouth. Nothing at all! Well, maybe a stifled wheeze, nothing more.
Aha, so I'm still dreaming, right?
"Well, there you are again," the little darling smiles at me. He comes close to my bed, takes my right hand, and continues: "Before you try to talk—that's not possible yet. Or more accurately: you basically have to learn to speak all over again. I'm going to ask you a few questions. If you say 'yes,' you squeeze my hand briefly, and if you say 'no,' you squeeze it a little longer. Shall we try that?"
I'm still a little confused, but obediently I give his hand a quick squeeze.
"Great! By the way, I'm an intern here on the ward, and my name is Weber, or Wolfgang for you." He smiles at me friendly.
Wow, Wolfi is already a doctor!
"Let's get started then. Do you remember your accident?"
Long press.
"Hmm, can you remember anything from the past?"
Hesitation, then long press, hesitation again and then short press.
"Aha, well, that's a start." He smiles at me sweetly again.
Sure, I remember now that my name is 'Tony' and I'm almost 20 years old. I have medium-brown hair and brown eyes. I also have what they call a 'silly face,' meaning I don't take anything seriously, at least not outwardly. Instead, I always have a witty, sometimes embarrassing, quip.
Oh yes: And I'm gay.
I've known the latter since I was sixteen. I've been out for two years, and for a year now I've had a very, very dear boyfriend—the sweetest and most affectionate person I've ever met. And he loves me just as much as I love him.
Then the most important question pops into my head: WHAT ABOUT THOMAS??
Of course, just wheezing again. Oh shit!
The young doctor, of course, notices that I'm tensing up, strokes my hair with his free hand, and gives me a reassuring smile.
"Stay calm, Tony. I know what worries you most: your friend Thomas, right?"
Short press. Three times!
His smile disappears, he looks at me sadly, and I know. Nevertheless, the next one hits me like a club.
"So, Tony, in order not to upset you more than necessary, here is your accident report in brief:
You and your friend were driving on the B223. Some complete idiots threw a manhole cover at you from a bridge. It smashed through the passenger-side windshield and hit your friend. He died instantly, so he certainly didn't suffer—if that helps.
My vision immediately becomes clouded, even though deep down I already suspected that Thomas was no longer alive.
I remember that Thomas and I were on our way to Dorsten – to a very nice restaurant where we wanted to properly celebrate our 'one-year anniversary' with a fine dinner.
Tears stream down my cheeks. Thomas loved going out to fancy dinner with me, and afterward, he was always especially sweet and affectionate.
There was this figure in the vault…
Wolfgang gently strokes my face and continues: "We'll get you back on track, I promise. I'll tell you more details in the next few days, once you've gotten over this. You need to get plenty of sleep so you can fight your injuries. That's very important right now, do you hear?"
A quick squeeze. And: Aha, crying and sobbing are quite manageable again.
He surreptitiously wipes his eyes, then takes a paper towel and gently wipes the tears from my face. Then he smiles at me encouragingly again and says, "Okay, I'll leave you alone now – with your pain. But I'll always come back and check on you when I have some time, okay? So then..."
With that, he squeezes my hand firmly, then lets go, dabs my tears again with the paper towel, looks at me lovingly once more, and turns back to his 'boss,' who has been listening silently the whole time, observing the equipment. Wolfgang quickly adjusts something on the IV bottle battery, and then they leave the room together.
I'm alone with my pain. The physical pain is still kept at bay by the chemicals from the 'junkie bar,' but the emotional pain is getting more and more intense. After a short while, I notice that tears are streaming down my cheeks again.
Gradually I howl back into my darkness.
After three days, I've recovered enough that Wolfgang is telling me more details. I've also practiced speaking again; first one word each time I exhale, then two or three each time... I'm getting pretty good at it now, croaking, but still understandable. Wolfi smiled and praised me.
Gradually, the dose of my constant drug use is also being reduced – and I'm slowly starting to feel the physical pain. What bothers me most is that I can't move my left arm.
I made an agreement with Wolfi that he would explain to me openly and bluntly everything I wanted to know and would stop immediately if it became too much for me.
So, little by little, I learned that my left arm was shattered and would probably remain stiff. Maybe I won't be able to use it at all; time will tell. Oh well, I won't let that get me down; with the right training, it'll get better.
I also have a crushed larynx, three cracked ribs, bruises and contusions all over that have almost completely healed, and a concussion.
Aha, if you can shake something up, then I'm definitely on my toes. Haha!
But I also often have stabbing pains in my lower abdomen, something Wolfi hasn't mentioned yet. I'll ask him about it tomorrow. Today is Sunday, and unfortunately, he has the day off. He's gone to visit his parents in southern Germany.
I can also lift my head a little again and see more of my 'prison'. Well, little by little, it'll get better, I'm optimistic. What's a bit confusing, though, are the three tubes that run under my blanket, and I don't yet know what they're for. Sure, one is attached to a catheter—after all, I have to pee sometimes—and leads to a urine bag that hangs next to my bed. But the other two? Somehow, these tubes are a key to something very important, I have a feeling.
Hopefully, Wolfgang will come back tomorrow. I don't have to wait for another visitor, because I don't have a family. My dad died of cancer when I was ten, and then my mom started drinking and drank herself into delirium tremens. At some point, they took her away and put her in a foster home. I grew up with a foster family, who didn't really like me, even though I was always a smart little guy.
When I was seventeen, my mom apparently gave up on herself in the 'nose bleaching' room and hanged herself from the window frame. She probably didn't think about me anymore. Well, I'm over it now; and my darling helped me a lot.
And 'friends'? All my so-called 'good' friends turned out to be 'empties' after I came out. They either simply avoided me afterward or bad-mouthed me at every opportunity – the whole cliché, over and over again. They sort of disqualified themselves. So I can do without them, right? Always true to the motto: 'You make friends, you have to earn enemies!'
Ha!
But I miss my Thomas so much! His sweet smile, his tender touches—he always noticed immediately when I wasn't feeling well. And I felt the same way about him! And then we gently held each other in our arms, leaned against each other—and everything was fine again. My insides tighten at these thoughts, and tears stream down my cheeks.
I cry myself to sleep again. The darkness is very comforting...
Yesterday, Monday, 'my' Wolfi didn't show up. The ward doctor said something about 'further training.'
But I did get my own caretaker. Unfortunately, he's a grumpy old fellow, in his mid-forties, gaunt, and with a hooked nose. He has a three-day beard and a lot of hair on his arms. I can't see the rest of it, of course, but I think he's as hairy as a monkey all over. And he's always in a bad mood, even though I try to make his job as easy as possible and don't have any special requests. Still, I always have the feeling he considers me his personal enemy.
Plus, his throat smells bad. But he knows his job, there's nothing wrong with that!
Finally, Wolfgang shows up again. He smiles at me and says, "Sorry I couldn't visit you yesterday. I was at a workshop—further training, you know. How are you today? In a lot of pain?"
I croak, "Well, it's okay. I'll manage. It's getting better and better, thanks to your good care." I return his smile.
Man, am I flirting with him? 'Tony, you're completely crazy. He just got off the 'famous' shovel and can barely move, but he's flirting with his doctor... I can't believe it!'
Wolfgang stands next to my bed, places a reassuring hand on my forehead, and says quietly, "Tony, I think I'll reduce your morphine dosage. You'll probably feel more pain then, but at some point we'll have to wean you off completely. And the sooner we start, the better. Or do you want to leave our hospitable home a junkie?" He grins so sweetly that I feel a tingling sensation all over my body.
"I'll reduce the dosage to the absolute minimum and then come back in about three hours to check on you. If you can't stand the pain any longer, please ring for the ward nurse. I'll brief her so she knows what you need."
'Unfortunately, the nurse—no matter how nice she is—can't give me back what I need,' I think. I croak out loud: "Okay, Wolfi, let's just try it without you and your drugs."
When I say 'Wolfi,' he grins openly at me but says nothing. Then he goes back to adjusting my 'junkie bar,' smiles at me once more, and then leaves the room.
It's almost dark outside when my 'private doctor' shows up again. My pain has been bearable so far, and I'm happy to see him. He's probably already off work, because he's changed and is now wearing a simple sweater, gray casual pants, and sandals. He must have showered, because his hair is still damp and messy around his head, which definitely makes him look even cuter. I want to ruffle his hair, but I just grin as he pulls up a stool and sits down next to me on the bed.
My grin practically freezes as I look more closely at his face. He's very serious as he places his hand on my forehead again. Then he asks me if the pain is bearable.
"Yes, it's bearable. I'll get back up. But why are you so serious? What happened?"
"Tony, if you're already stable enough that you won't get a shock if I tell you the details, please tell me. What I have to tell you is really intense, so today I'll only tell you the bare minimum. How are things? Do you think you can handle something?"
"Sure, I'm robust. So, just start – and if I faint, just wait until I wake up again. Then you can continue." I try to grin coolly, but I don't seem to quite manage it. Anyway, Wolfgang looks at me seriously and appraisingly. Then he simply begins:
"Just so you know we're on the same wavelength: I know by now that you're gay. I understand you better than you might have thought, because I'm gay too, though I haven't come out yet; that's not exactly conducive to a budding chief physician, as you can probably imagine. Our society is simply too rigid for that, but I'm sure you know that too. I take it for granted that you won't tell anyone my secret, right?"
I nod cautiously, take his hand in mine, and squeeze it briefly.
He pauses briefly, then: "And I noticed right away that you like me; I like you too. But please don't get your hopes up, I'm in a relationship—I've been for several years now. And I'm very happy with my boyfriend!
So, now to you. You already know what happened in your accident. Unfortunately, your friend didn't survive. I'm very, very sorry for you, and nothing can make up for that. But now the most important thing is that you get better—at least as well as possible."
I stubbornly remain silent, and after another short pause, he continues: "I won't tell you in detail what happened right now, but I'll tell you this much: After the 'accident,' you must have reacted very quickly and correctly, because you brought the car to a stop a few meters to the right of the road. You remained completely unharmed. I'll explain to you tomorrow what happened after that and how you sustained your serious injuries; a detective from the Criminal Investigation Department will be here then, and he'll probably bombard you with questions."
He takes a deep breath and then continues: "Your left arm is pretty much shattered. We hope to be able to repair it enough to avoid amputation. I can't promise that, though. And one more thing: Your testicles were completely crushed, which is why a complete removal of your scrotum was unavoidable. You've probably noticed the tubes in your abdomen! They're there to drain wound fluid, preventing infection and allowing the wound to heal. Fortunately, your penis isn't badly injured, so everything will probably be okay. Maybe you can make someone happy again someday."
At the last sentence, he pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. Then he looks lovingly at me, his patient, gently strokes my hair, and—after a brief hesitation—gives me a tender kiss on the forehead.
I lie there, thunderstruck.
"Now, try to sleep. And don't dwell on your worries too long—everything will be alright... somehow..." he tries to comfort me. Then he gives me another injection in my good arm and says, "This will help you sleep better. Good night, my little one." With that, he gives me a little kiss on the forehead and leaves.
'Shattered arm? Crushed sack?? Yeah, what? I was uninjured after the accident, he said?'
Naturally, I begin to wonder what could have happened.
I'm slowly drifting off into a deep sleep. The injection was good after all.
Very gradually, the darkness lifts; an endless vault – fog wafts through the space – and at the very end, radiant brightness. I float very slowly toward this light. The fog gradually dissipates. It gradually becomes brighter.
Indistinct, blurry figures float in the light, waving to me. I feel infinitely comfortable, almost happy, and I draw ever closer to the figures.
A monotonous humming is everywhere. A lone figure breaks away from the others and floats purposefully toward me with its arm outstretched. It has no face, but I know exactly who it is. My joy is overwhelming. I stretch out my hand and can almost touch the figure...
Suddenly, the room darkens, and a sudden, freshening wind swirls the remaining mists, the figures, the radiant light—and I am alone again in my dark vault. The humming abruptly dies away, and silence surrounds me.
I long for the light and the individual figure.
I suddenly feel incredibly sad.
Then blackness surrounds me again.
An unpleasant pale light blinds me—even through my closed eyelids. I try to roll my head back against the pillow, but I can't move. Something is holding me in this position.
Who am I, anyway? Why can't I remember anything at all? Why doesn't anyone turn off this damn diffuse light? And what's that incessant, irritating beeping sound?
Thank God, everything is going black around me again…
There's that pale light again. I try to open my eyes – and this time it works. Only very gradually, and only a little bit, but still. I can't move, but my gaze scans my surroundings.
Aha, I'm lying in a hospital bed; cables and tubes are dangling all over me. The annoying beeping has changed—somehow louder and faster.
Hospital—so I'm sick! But why? I've never been seriously ill!
I suddenly remember a bang… screeching brakes… then silence.
And Thomas, who is sitting on the passenger side, is no longer moving.
Oh God, we've had an accident! Where is Thomas? WHERE IS MY SWEETHEART??
The beeping increases to an infernal screech.
Darkness…
"I think he's waking up, Professor."
A very pleasant voice brings me back to that bright, pale light. I open my eyes, which is quite easy this time, and look around. So I can also move my head a little again.
Aha, a typical intensive care unit room, diffused light, machines, tubes, and cables everywhere you look. Next to my bed is a kind of 'junkie bar'; a whole battery of IV containers on a chrome stand, all full of chemicals and connected to a drip via individual dosage controls – and this drip runs via a central tube under my bed covers. I can't see the IV access, but since I did my extra-, er... community service in a hospital, I'm familiar with all these torture instruments. So the drug mix runs directly via a 'port' to my blood pump... er... heart, I mean, of course.
Two men in scrubs are standing at my bedside; one about fifty and apparently the chief physician; the other perhaps in his early twenties and either an intern or an operating room nurse.
And pretty cute, as my 'gay scan' immediately indicates! So, on the open-ended sweetness scale, he's at least a '7'. But first, I have to figure out what's actually going on with me.
The simplest thing: ask, because as we all know, people who speak can be helped.
So I open my mouth and ask, "Hey, guys, nice to see you. What actually happened?"
Anyway, I'd like to ask this. But not even a croak comes out of my mouth. Nothing at all! Well, maybe a stifled wheeze, nothing more.
Aha, so I'm still dreaming, right?
"Well, there you are again," the little darling smiles at me. He comes close to my bed, takes my right hand, and continues: "Before you try to talk—that's not possible yet. Or more accurately: you basically have to learn to speak all over again. I'm going to ask you a few questions. If you say 'yes,' you squeeze my hand briefly, and if you say 'no,' you squeeze it a little longer. Shall we try that?"
I'm still a little confused, but obediently I give his hand a quick squeeze.
"Great! By the way, I'm an intern here on the ward, and my name is Weber, or Wolfgang for you." He smiles at me friendly.
Wow, Wolfi is already a doctor!
"Let's get started then. Do you remember your accident?"
Long press.
"Hmm, can you remember anything from the past?"
Hesitation, then long press, hesitation again and then short press.
"Aha, well, that's a start." He smiles at me sweetly again.
Sure, I remember now that my name is 'Tony' and I'm almost 20 years old. I have medium-brown hair and brown eyes. I also have what they call a 'silly face,' meaning I don't take anything seriously, at least not outwardly. Instead, I always have a witty, sometimes embarrassing, quip.
Oh yes: And I'm gay.
I've known the latter since I was sixteen. I've been out for two years, and for a year now I've had a very, very dear boyfriend—the sweetest and most affectionate person I've ever met. And he loves me just as much as I love him.
Then the most important question pops into my head: WHAT ABOUT THOMAS??
Of course, just wheezing again. Oh shit!
The young doctor, of course, notices that I'm tensing up, strokes my hair with his free hand, and gives me a reassuring smile.
"Stay calm, Tony. I know what worries you most: your friend Thomas, right?"
Short press. Three times!
His smile disappears, he looks at me sadly, and I know. Nevertheless, the next one hits me like a club.
"So, Tony, in order not to upset you more than necessary, here is your accident report in brief:
You and your friend were driving on the B223. Some complete idiots threw a manhole cover at you from a bridge. It smashed through the passenger-side windshield and hit your friend. He died instantly, so he certainly didn't suffer—if that helps.
My vision immediately becomes clouded, even though deep down I already suspected that Thomas was no longer alive.
I remember that Thomas and I were on our way to Dorsten – to a very nice restaurant where we wanted to properly celebrate our 'one-year anniversary' with a fine dinner.
Tears stream down my cheeks. Thomas loved going out to fancy dinner with me, and afterward, he was always especially sweet and affectionate.
There was this figure in the vault…
Wolfgang gently strokes my face and continues: "We'll get you back on track, I promise. I'll tell you more details in the next few days, once you've gotten over this. You need to get plenty of sleep so you can fight your injuries. That's very important right now, do you hear?"
A quick squeeze. And: Aha, crying and sobbing are quite manageable again.
He surreptitiously wipes his eyes, then takes a paper towel and gently wipes the tears from my face. Then he smiles at me encouragingly again and says, "Okay, I'll leave you alone now – with your pain. But I'll always come back and check on you when I have some time, okay? So then..."
With that, he squeezes my hand firmly, then lets go, dabs my tears again with the paper towel, looks at me lovingly once more, and turns back to his 'boss,' who has been listening silently the whole time, observing the equipment. Wolfgang quickly adjusts something on the IV bottle battery, and then they leave the room together.
I'm alone with my pain. The physical pain is still kept at bay by the chemicals from the 'junkie bar,' but the emotional pain is getting more and more intense. After a short while, I notice that tears are streaming down my cheeks again.
Gradually I howl back into my darkness.
After three days, I've recovered enough that Wolfgang is telling me more details. I've also practiced speaking again; first one word each time I exhale, then two or three each time... I'm getting pretty good at it now, croaking, but still understandable. Wolfi smiled and praised me.
Gradually, the dose of my constant drug use is also being reduced – and I'm slowly starting to feel the physical pain. What bothers me most is that I can't move my left arm.
I made an agreement with Wolfi that he would explain to me openly and bluntly everything I wanted to know and would stop immediately if it became too much for me.
So, little by little, I learned that my left arm was shattered and would probably remain stiff. Maybe I won't be able to use it at all; time will tell. Oh well, I won't let that get me down; with the right training, it'll get better.
I also have a crushed larynx, three cracked ribs, bruises and contusions all over that have almost completely healed, and a concussion.
Aha, if you can shake something up, then I'm definitely on my toes. Haha!
But I also often have stabbing pains in my lower abdomen, something Wolfi hasn't mentioned yet. I'll ask him about it tomorrow. Today is Sunday, and unfortunately, he has the day off. He's gone to visit his parents in southern Germany.
I can also lift my head a little again and see more of my 'prison'. Well, little by little, it'll get better, I'm optimistic. What's a bit confusing, though, are the three tubes that run under my blanket, and I don't yet know what they're for. Sure, one is attached to a catheter—after all, I have to pee sometimes—and leads to a urine bag that hangs next to my bed. But the other two? Somehow, these tubes are a key to something very important, I have a feeling.
Hopefully, Wolfgang will come back tomorrow. I don't have to wait for another visitor, because I don't have a family. My dad died of cancer when I was ten, and then my mom started drinking and drank herself into delirium tremens. At some point, they took her away and put her in a foster home. I grew up with a foster family, who didn't really like me, even though I was always a smart little guy.
When I was seventeen, my mom apparently gave up on herself in the 'nose bleaching' room and hanged herself from the window frame. She probably didn't think about me anymore. Well, I'm over it now; and my darling helped me a lot.
And 'friends'? All my so-called 'good' friends turned out to be 'empties' after I came out. They either simply avoided me afterward or bad-mouthed me at every opportunity – the whole cliché, over and over again. They sort of disqualified themselves. So I can do without them, right? Always true to the motto: 'You make friends, you have to earn enemies!'
Ha!
But I miss my Thomas so much! His sweet smile, his tender touches—he always noticed immediately when I wasn't feeling well. And I felt the same way about him! And then we gently held each other in our arms, leaned against each other—and everything was fine again. My insides tighten at these thoughts, and tears stream down my cheeks.
I cry myself to sleep again. The darkness is very comforting...
Yesterday, Monday, 'my' Wolfi didn't show up. The ward doctor said something about 'further training.'
But I did get my own caretaker. Unfortunately, he's a grumpy old fellow, in his mid-forties, gaunt, and with a hooked nose. He has a three-day beard and a lot of hair on his arms. I can't see the rest of it, of course, but I think he's as hairy as a monkey all over. And he's always in a bad mood, even though I try to make his job as easy as possible and don't have any special requests. Still, I always have the feeling he considers me his personal enemy.
Plus, his throat smells bad. But he knows his job, there's nothing wrong with that!
Finally, Wolfgang shows up again. He smiles at me and says, "Sorry I couldn't visit you yesterday. I was at a workshop—further training, you know. How are you today? In a lot of pain?"
I croak, "Well, it's okay. I'll manage. It's getting better and better, thanks to your good care." I return his smile.
Man, am I flirting with him? 'Tony, you're completely crazy. He just got off the 'famous' shovel and can barely move, but he's flirting with his doctor... I can't believe it!'
Wolfgang stands next to my bed, places a reassuring hand on my forehead, and says quietly, "Tony, I think I'll reduce your morphine dosage. You'll probably feel more pain then, but at some point we'll have to wean you off completely. And the sooner we start, the better. Or do you want to leave our hospitable home a junkie?" He grins so sweetly that I feel a tingling sensation all over my body.
"I'll reduce the dosage to the absolute minimum and then come back in about three hours to check on you. If you can't stand the pain any longer, please ring for the ward nurse. I'll brief her so she knows what you need."
'Unfortunately, the nurse—no matter how nice she is—can't give me back what I need,' I think. I croak out loud: "Okay, Wolfi, let's just try it without you and your drugs."
When I say 'Wolfi,' he grins openly at me but says nothing. Then he goes back to adjusting my 'junkie bar,' smiles at me once more, and then leaves the room.
It's almost dark outside when my 'private doctor' shows up again. My pain has been bearable so far, and I'm happy to see him. He's probably already off work, because he's changed and is now wearing a simple sweater, gray casual pants, and sandals. He must have showered, because his hair is still damp and messy around his head, which definitely makes him look even cuter. I want to ruffle his hair, but I just grin as he pulls up a stool and sits down next to me on the bed.
My grin practically freezes as I look more closely at his face. He's very serious as he places his hand on my forehead again. Then he asks me if the pain is bearable.
"Yes, it's bearable. I'll get back up. But why are you so serious? What happened?"
"Tony, if you're already stable enough that you won't get a shock if I tell you the details, please tell me. What I have to tell you is really intense, so today I'll only tell you the bare minimum. How are things? Do you think you can handle something?"
"Sure, I'm robust. So, just start – and if I faint, just wait until I wake up again. Then you can continue." I try to grin coolly, but I don't seem to quite manage it. Anyway, Wolfgang looks at me seriously and appraisingly. Then he simply begins:
"Just so you know we're on the same wavelength: I know by now that you're gay. I understand you better than you might have thought, because I'm gay too, though I haven't come out yet; that's not exactly conducive to a budding chief physician, as you can probably imagine. Our society is simply too rigid for that, but I'm sure you know that too. I take it for granted that you won't tell anyone my secret, right?"
I nod cautiously, take his hand in mine, and squeeze it briefly.
He pauses briefly, then: "And I noticed right away that you like me; I like you too. But please don't get your hopes up, I'm in a relationship—I've been for several years now. And I'm very happy with my boyfriend!
So, now to you. You already know what happened in your accident. Unfortunately, your friend didn't survive. I'm very, very sorry for you, and nothing can make up for that. But now the most important thing is that you get better—at least as well as possible."
I stubbornly remain silent, and after another short pause, he continues: "I won't tell you in detail what happened right now, but I'll tell you this much: After the 'accident,' you must have reacted very quickly and correctly, because you brought the car to a stop a few meters to the right of the road. You remained completely unharmed. I'll explain to you tomorrow what happened after that and how you sustained your serious injuries; a detective from the Criminal Investigation Department will be here then, and he'll probably bombard you with questions."
He takes a deep breath and then continues: "Your left arm is pretty much shattered. We hope to be able to repair it enough to avoid amputation. I can't promise that, though. And one more thing: Your testicles were completely crushed, which is why a complete removal of your scrotum was unavoidable. You've probably noticed the tubes in your abdomen! They're there to drain wound fluid, preventing infection and allowing the wound to heal. Fortunately, your penis isn't badly injured, so everything will probably be okay. Maybe you can make someone happy again someday."
At the last sentence, he pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. Then he looks lovingly at me, his patient, gently strokes my hair, and—after a brief hesitation—gives me a tender kiss on the forehead.
I lie there, thunderstruck.
"Now, try to sleep. And don't dwell on your worries too long—everything will be alright... somehow..." he tries to comfort me. Then he gives me another injection in my good arm and says, "This will help you sleep better. Good night, my little one." With that, he gives me a little kiss on the forehead and leaves.
'Shattered arm? Crushed sack?? Yeah, what? I was uninjured after the accident, he said?'
Naturally, I begin to wonder what could have happened.
I'm slowly drifting off into a deep sleep. The injection was good after all.