Sleeping Beauty, Revisited: Part I

A long time ago, I came up with a few lines with which I wanted to begin a story, and wrote a post about it. A few months later, I did end up writing a part of the story, but then got stuck, and haven't continued it since. In an attempt to kick start my lazy brain into doing something about it, I figured I'd put the part I'd already written up here with the promise to add more by next week. So here's hoping I can actually stick to deadlines set by myself. And here's the story. 

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Disclaimer: I know nothing about the medical profession, as you will soon find out. All medical-related things are purely a figment of my imagination. Also, cliched as it is, a coma was the closest thing I could find to a curse, and the treatment the closest to the Prince's kiss. Despite these shortcomings though, I hope you enjoy this. 

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Sometimes you wake up and you just know that you've been asleep for long-longer than you'd imagined, longer than you'd wanted. When I opened my eyes, it felt like months had passed.

In a little while, I was to find that they had.

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Squinting up at the concerned faces, outlined by brightly lit halos, I tried to figure out why I felt so bleary.

Images came to my mind, of crashing and smashing, sounds of glass tinkling and voices screaming. Oh. That's why. The accident. 

"Oh, Raina! You're awake!" 

"Oh, thank god!"

"My baby, my baby!"
People spoke and cried and laughed and generally emanated an air of hysterical relief. My mother fluttered around me, hugged me, then, ever thoughtful, turned around and hugged the young doctor standing nearby. "Thank you, thank you! You did what no one else could. Thank you!"

The doctor smiled, glanced at my stats and, apparently satisfied, excused himself, looking more enthusiastic about my awakening than was normal, I thought. But wait, what had he done that no one else could? How badly had I been injured?

Pretty badly, I was soon told. I'd been in a coma for six months (six months!). I'd missed my twenty sixth birthday! More importantly, I'd remained in a coma despite every doctor trying every treatment on me, until they had thought they had no hope. Until, that is, Dr. Taylor found them. Young and quiet, he brought with him a new treatment and a promise to bring me back into the conscious world. The only catch was, the treatment was still in the testing stage. It worked by sending impulses to various parts of the body, trying to imitate the impulses sent when the body was conscious. My mouth, therefore, was sent impulses to make it eat, kiss, taste, swallow; my hand to clench, relax, tap, stir. This artificial sending of impulses slowly stirred the brain, reminding it of its duties and eventually making it conscious again. Pushed into a corner with a choice between turning me into a guinea pig or letting me rot away in a coma forever, my parents opted for the former, and a month later, I opened my eyes to the world once again. 

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I remained at the hospital for another two weeks, under observation and so that I could narrate my experience to Dr. Taylor-a task he did not find easy, for I asked as much as I answered.

"So wait, when you send an impulse to my mouth to kiss, what happens? Do I just try to smooch thin air or something?" I tried to wrap my head around that image, and failed.

Dr. Taylor-or Jake, as I'd taken to calling him, unasked (on the logic that if I was sharing some of my most intimate experiences with someone, I had the right to call him by his first name)-sighed wearily, the first sign of impatience I'd seen in the man. "Something of the sort. When we send an impulse to eat, for example, your mouth salivates and moves in a chewing motion."

"...so I basically spent a month kissing air?"

"...I wouldn't put it that way..."

"How would you put it?"

"...well, I suppose you did spend a month kissing air."

"Huh. So if someone had put their mouth to mine then, I would've kissed them?"
"...I don't know, Miss Williams. That was not a part of my experimental process. If you ever require my treatment again, however, be assured that I will check." Huh. The man had a sarcastic side, who'd have thunk it?

"...was it a french kiss or a normal one?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The impulse. What type of kiss did it want me to do? Was my tongue waving around in the air as well?"

This time, he didn't even try to answer me. Giving me a level stare, he repeated the question he'd asked before I'd diverted onto more interesting topics. I grinned and answered dutifully, figuring I'd pushed him enough for a day.