1. The Last Flight Chapter 12


    Date: 9/9/2015, Categories: Lesbian, Author: Annamagique, Rating: 2, Source: LushStories

    My father stayed for just two hours. Not because he didn't want to stay, he did, very much but there was so much happening that it just was not possible to talk together for more than a few minutes. Before he left he held me tightly and a few more tears were shed between us. He told me he would stay a couple of days in a hotel in the town but he could not leave the farm for too long and wrote down the name and telephone number so I could contact him. Investigators needed more questions to be answered, the press were still looking for stories and the airline's representatives were in and out, making arrangements for my imminent return to England. As the only surviving crew member I was the focus of all their attention. It was late in the day when I had a visit from Doctor Rousseau. “Bon soir, Karen,” he greeted me cheerily. “How are you?” “Good evening, Doctor Rousseau,” I smiled widely. “I feel wonderful, thank you.” “That is good.” He turned to Françoise, who had followed him into the room, and spoke quickly in French. She nodded and walked around to the other side of the bed. “Now,” he continued in English, “We shall have a look at your wound. Is it still painful?” “A little,” I answered truthfully, “but not like it was.” Françoise unpinned the thick bandage and, supporting my knee, began to unwrap it, finishing with the large gauze dressing. Very carefully she lifted the corner and peeled back, dropping it into the enamel dish on the little trolley she had brought in ...
    with her. I looked down at the vivid red gash with its little stitches, like tiny black spiders holding the two sides together. Doctor Rousseau examined it closely, touching it so gently with his finger tips. “Could you raise your knee for me please,” he asked and watched carefully as I bent my leg, drawing my foot up, sliding along the bed until my heel almost touched my bottom. I winced as the pain increased, the stitches pulling a little as my muscles tightened. “Okay, and down again, slowly,” he instructed. My foot slipped carefully back to the end of the bed and I breathed out a sigh of relief as the painful pressure finally eased. “Bon, very good,” the doctor smiled at me. “It is healing very well.” Again he turned to Françoise and spoke in French then returning to me, he said: “Okay, I am pleased at how well it looks. I am afraid the scar will never disappear but Doctor Harlow has done an excellent repair on the damage you did when the stitches tore out.” He looked again at the wound before continuing: “Tomorrow, I think, you can begin to walk and if that goes well, I think you will be able to leave the day after, yes?” “Walk? Already?” I could not believe that after such a short time it was healed enough to walk on. “Yes,” he affirmed “I think so.” “Surely it is not healed sufficiently to walk on yet,” I argued, “It has only been a few days!” “Oh, I see what you mean.” He chuckled gently to himself for a moment. “It will be several weeks until it is sufficiently strong ...
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