Delorez stretched out on the white starched sheets of her hospital bed and thought things could be worse. Feeling no pain from the morphine, food on demand, though institutional, air-conditioning, and clean sheets. And face it, she’d always had a nasty thing for eye-patches. Oh, yeah. Big pirate dude all muscular with ripped clothing showing off ropy muscles, lots of facial hair, and a black eye-patch to top it off. Miss D squirmed a bit on the bed. But herself with a patch? Would have to be a bright royal blue, yeah, criss-crossed with diamonds, ok fake ones but who cared, and a teeny, tiny appliqué of a bright green parrot on one edge. That would be just fine. Shave her hair almost to nothing and get some big dangly ear hoops.
Since she was on leave, most likely forever for leaving her post, driving like a fool and destroying the stake-out car, this girl would have plenty of time to satisfy a guilty fantasy she’d had for years. Sword-fighting lessons. Shiny blades, the clang of metal, leather boots dancing across the floor. The tension of the swords as they thrust together with full strength, the muscles of the swordsmen (or woman in this case) straining to break a clinch. Or not. The not-unpleasant sting of a slight cut, the tearing of fabric. Delorez swallowed hard and rang for the nurse.
“Hey, can I have a coke here? I’m all hot and sweaty all of a sudden.’
“Maybe you have a fever. I’d better check.”
“I just need a coke—“ a thermometer was shoved under her tongue. Miss D wiggled it around and pretended it was a sword. Move it this way, then that, roooolll with it baby. She giggled.
“What are you doing with that—stop it.” The nurse removed and read it. “Looks normal. How about some juice? Healthier than coke.”
Delorez glared at her with one eye. “You want me to Live Well and Thrive? Unless you want me to start making some fuss, get me a coke.” Delorez squinted at the nurse’s rigid back as she left the room. Icky white uniform. No white for Delorez here. Her fencing clothes would be black and royal blue with stripes of green down the arms. Underneath she’d wear cherry red underwear. And paint her nails, top and bottom, multi-colored. Yeah, she’d be something when she got out of here. She’d knock, or slice, them dead. She lifted her hand and brushed it against the bulky bandage covering her eye and struggled not to cry.
By CR
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