Comatose Ted

CHAPTER ONE

Ted opened his eyes. They were heavy, caked with tear duct mucous. Plus, they were out of practice. Did eyelids have muscle memory? It sure felt like they did. And his had forgotten everything. He opened them anyway. As best he could.

His mouth was dry. He couldn't swallow.

There was a tube in his throat. In his nose. In his arms. Tubes were everywhere. Even down... below. Ted wanted to pull out the tubes, but his arms were too heavy. Really heavy, couldn't lift anything heavy. Like his crusty eyelids.

And there was beeping.

He was surrounded by beeping.

"He's awake, again," someone called down the hall.

This caused a commotion. First in the hallway, then in his room. He couldn't see what was happening but his hearing worked great. His ears were propped on large white pillows.

A flood of singularly coloured people came into the room. Either mint green, or muted orange, two pinks, a blue. They all peered down at him. Fluffing his pillow, furrowing their brows, mustering warm smiles, not sure what to do.

Hello. Ted tried to smile at them. Wave for them. Nothing happened. He tried again.

"It's okay," a hand went to his leg. One of the single-coloured women gave him a motherly pat. He felt the warmth right through the blanket.

The others came more into focus.

Nurses.

And then a doctor arrived.

The stethoscope gave him away.

Did doctors wear stethoscopes just so people would know who they were? That was a smart plan, Ted thought. Nobody could read a tiny nametag without weirdly squinting between someone's nipple and their shoulder blade. Stethoscopes were much bigger. They stopped unsightly squinting.

He was good-looking, this doctor was. Really good-looking. Green scrubs. Brown skin. Dark eyes. Fluffy, black hair. He looked like a doctor they'd cast in a good-looking doctor series; the kind Ted's Mom liked to watch, about the good-looking doctors who cared so much and looked so good. Was Ted his patient? He hoped not. On a show like that, the good-looking doctors' patients always died so the good-looking doctors would have something to cry about, acting vulnerable and handsome. Ted didn't want to be cried about. Plus, he was a kid, so the tv doctors could be twice as inconsolable in the event of his untimely demise.

Twice as vulnerable. Twice as handsome.

Then, Ted would be dead and the healer would be comforted by a thin, beautiful, romantically-unattached nurse, with perfectly highlighted, beachy-wave hair. It was always the beautiful, single nurses who came to comfort the good-looking doctors at the depths of their despair on the tv shows. Ted supposed the plump, happily-married nurses had better things to do. Luckily, he wasn't on television.

The doctor put on black, thick-rimmed glasses that made his good-looking face look even better. Oh, brother. Ted tried to talk but the throat tube stopped him.

"Look who decided to join us," the good-looking doctor said.

"Nphhhhr," Ted replied.

"Yes, well, try not to move too much," he told the boy, as if he'd understood his reply. "Prepare a TK," he told the orange wearing nurse. "I'm going to sit you up," he returned his attention to Ted.

"Haooydfbxhhr," Ted agreed.

The motorized bed followed the good-looking doctor's button-pressing command and Ted's world-view began to change. Slowly, he could see more of the room. It was plain. White walls and grey cords. Uncomfortable furniture. A small tv.