But whatever Jörn was about to say is upstaged by a sudden interruption of more familiar voices entering the apartment in an excited rush and —in a heated argument that…. is making my head pound as their language is not kind to migraines
“Oh!” I gasp and cover my ears and eyes, “why does my head still hurt?”
“Don’t touch the stitches!” Jörn says as he rushes towards me from the window where he had been pacing to but almost defeating the purpose, I’d hazard to guess, he calls out loudly in operatic tenor,
“snälla håll nere rösten!”
and this rings and seems to echo in revolutions
“What do you mean stitches?” I am horrified now as I look up at him
But he is too busy looking at the back of my head and pulling away my hair in the exact spot that has been pounding and—
“ouwh! fuck!” I say and reach back to feel what he is looking at—but—he slaps my hand away! with a sort of reprimand —I can only guess— as it’s in his language and I cannot spell what he just said; still, the tone says everything, doesn’t it? As I suddenly feel like I’m ten
“Your hands are dirty!” he says in English
“I’ve been unconscious—“ I start to get up to wash my hands but he pushes me back
“You shouldn’t be walking around —the doctor said,” he tells me and then he looks at me in —that way— which makes me think I’m risking being put over his knee with a spanking if I don’t get back in bed
So I give him a look displaying my surrender because I ….actually don’t care enough anyway
I get back in bed and crawl under the covers as suddenly it feels like I ran a marathon
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