“Uuuurrrgggh…” I stumbled into the kitchen feeling very gross-looking, with wild hair and dry, red eyes. Slomo was cleaning up when he saw me treading in like a slow giant. “What’s wrong?” he asked, reassuringly. “I’m so dehydrated,” I groaned, “I’ve been taking a nap, but I feel so achy and tired. I have heartburn and indigestion and my head feels like it’s about to explode.” “Looks like you feel dehydrated,” said Slomo, “Come on, let’s get you onto the sofa.”
Slomo carried me over to the sofa and placed me onto its soft surface. He then placed a blanket over me and went into the kitchen. He came back minutes later with an ice pack, a glass of water and some paracetamol. He had snapped the two pills in half, and said, “Here. Take these, it’ll make you feel all better.” I took the pills slowly. “Slomo, you are kind,” I sighed, sinking down into the sofa. “Of course I am,” said Slomo softly, “You need plenty of rest. Without it, where else would you be?”
“I’ve scratched myself,” I said, pointing at some scars on my chest. “Oh dear,” said Slomo, and he went to fetch a tub of soothing cream from the bathroom. He came back with it and applied it to my scar-ridden chest. “That should make you feel all better,” he said.
“Stay by my side, Slomo,” I whimpered, “Just so I could tell you when I’m in pain again.” “Of course I will. I know I’ve got lots more things to do, but don’t worry. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel better.” “Th-th-thank you,” I stuttered.
Slomo stayed by my side, telling stories and singing lullabies, until I smiled and drifted off to sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment