The Irony of Fate by Mathias P.Sagan

Author:Mathias P.Sagan [P.Sagan, Mathias]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Public, Manuscript Template
Publisher: Mathias P.Sagan
Published: 2016-04-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17 – The Villa

After eating the breakfast. I take my shower where I attempt to clean myself, given my new circumstances. Without the IV I am able to move a little more freely, but the plastic bag around my cast feels nasty on my skin. Using only a hand to clean myself isn’t the most comfortable task to perform either. How do I even wash my hair that way? By shutting off the water, pouring shampoo on my head and rubbing it on my hair as quickly as I can. Disabling. Disabled. This is what I am for the next few weeks…

But I’m not complaining, it could have been much worse. I could have had cracked or broken ribs, internal bleeding, broken spleen… To cut things short, I’m alive and not too shabby.

Getting dressed is a nightmare. I put my boxer briefs on pretty easily, but when I try on my slim jeans, I give up. I push the call button next to my bed, sit on my pride and wait for the nurse’s help. She smiles and dresses me as if helping a child. She teaches me a trick to put on the T-shirt the hospital gave me to replace my torn shirt. I need to put on the first sleeve by the broken arm, lift up the sleeve to its maximum height, move my head in the collar, and finally put my arm in the second sleeve. I’m all sweaty when I’m done.

The police come to see me and ask me to tell them what happened. I do it coldly, without giving the specifics. Anyway, they have surveillance cameras. When they ask me if I’ll testify in court, I refuse firmly. No way. They try to make me change my mind, but I’m adamant. I lived it. I told them what happened. I won’t do anything more. They go away a little after that, seemingly unhappy, but it’s my life, not theirs.

George arrives a few minutes after, offering me his help to put on my coat and my shoulder bag. I sign several forms to get out of there, get my prescription, and leave the place. I still don’t like hospitals with their sterilized smells and their creepy hallways. Besides, no one feels at ease in these kinds of places. It’s never by pleasure that people go. We strut slowly in the hallways, and when we reach the parking lot, I realize I’ve never thought about George’s car. My new friend has a chauffeur!

“Alan, please meet Pascal. He’s my chauffeur and he takes care of all the house management.”

We shake hands and I secretly thank my guardian angel to have the left arm broken and not the right. I can at least shake hands with people! A tiny victory in this turmoil of a life pleases me. We get in the big black German car with the tainted windows and drive through Paris.

It’s the perfect moment to ask. “Where do you live?”

“In the Montmorency Villa.” He answers flatly.

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