Chapter 1 of the Novel Finlish

Copyright 2006 by RR Johnson Jr. No part of this writing may be used or copied without written permission of the author. EXCEPTION: Up to 500 words of a single chapter may be copied for the sole purpose of a school or college book report for non commercial purpose only. Interested publishers may send a query email to johnson_robert_roy@hotmail.com and in the subject line of the email use the words "NOVEL QUERY" without the quotes.

The novel FINLISH is a light comedy I wrote during 2006. This novel is dedicated with love and respect to P.J.. Without her this novel would never have been written.


Chapter 1 Part 1

I never realized just how frail the human body can be. A simple malfunction of a blood artery can kill, cause paralysis, or permanent damage.

Petra was lying on a hospital bed with a tube in her arm. I softly stroked her hair. Although I had touched and stroked her hair countless times; this time the touch felt different, more delicate. She was still unconscious and although the doctors called it a coma, I prefer to say that she was ‘just sleeping’.

While she slept I walked over to a small bag, searched diligently, and found her hair brush. I made my way back to her bedside. I had to be careful around the tube inserted in her arm. I brushed her hair gently and this seemed to give me some relief, or maybe it just put my mind off of thinking about my own emotional pain if only for a few moments.

The doctors were optimistic. They believed she would wake up, but they could not tell me when she might wake up.

I had not slept for three days, as that was when her coma first started. I refused to leave the hospital believing my presence would aid her in some way.

My daily meals since the start of Petra's coma evolved around whatever the hospital cafeteria was serving. In the hospital cafeteria there seems to be an abundance of fish meals being served. Normally this would be great, but I wasn’t particularly hungry, especially for fish.

Luckily a nurse took pity on me and made me a small bowl of chicken soup near the nurses' station on the third day of Petra's coma. It was probably made from a pouch of ready to eat instant soup ingredients, but it tasted great. I thanked the nurse for the soup. I offered her some Euros for the soup as compensation, but she declined.

Afterwards while sitting at Petra’s bedside I whispered into her ear that I loved her. I felt helpless, wondering if there was anything I could do to make her respond to me. The doctors told me that only time would tell.