Post by Wylde Hunt on Jun 20, 2017 14:01:24 GMT -6
A comfortable farmhouse living room
Birmingham, Alabama
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„Careful Misses Phelps. Yes. That is better.”
Anyone who had ever been in the ring with Honey Hunt would have been amazed at how gently Honey´s alter ego Silvia Huntington could adjust the position of the leg of an elderly woman who just had had knee surgery.
Silvia filled a niche by being a physiotherapist who visited her patients at home and saved them the often tedious journey to a hospital or a medical practice. She liked her job too. She liked helping people who had lost their mobility and suffered from pain regain some quality in life. She was also good enough in her job to be proud of what she accomplished.
But there was always that drop of bad conscience. Silvia always felt a bit guilty towards her patients.
Misses Phelps was a nice old lady who has lost her husband two years ago and then shattered her right knee in a fall last year. It had been a complicated surgery but now through gentle stretching, yoga and a good deal of stubbornness on the old ladies part she was almost pain free and able to walk again without a crutch or a cane.
Silvia was proud of the progress Misses Phelps made.
And still the bad conscience was gnawing on her.
It was because Silvia knew she wasn´t here with all her heart, sometimes not even with all her mind. Physiotherapy was what paid her bills but it was another life she really wanted to live.
She really wanted to be Honey Hunt.
Her patients deserved someone better, someone one-hundred percent dedicated to their well-being and not just seventy or eighty percent because the next wrestling gig was around the corner.
It was like an addiction, a drug, something Silvia wanted, something she needed. It was also a bit schizophrenic as Silvia thought of herself not as two different personas but as living two different lives, one belonging to Silvia Huntington and the other to Honey Hunt. It had been like that even before she had adopted here ring name, one normal life for a rational person and one wild life for a maniac.
The craziest thing was that Silvia knew full well what wrestling did to her. Eventually she´d be the one who would need physiotherapy to fight chronic pain.
She didn´t give a damn. It was really like doing drugs.
“Silvia?”
The gentle voice snapped her out of her daydream and she looked into the smiling face of Misses Phelps. Once again Silvia wondered. The old lady must have been stunning in her youth. You could still see it through the layer of wrinkles.
“Thinking of a man?” Misses Phelps inquired.
“I have a date later. Sort of.” Silvia moved Misses Phelps´ injured knee with outmost care, happy that the sinews responded again without resistance.
“Then you should hurry. You are young only once in your life.”
“We are not done yet.”
“You´ve done enough. That damned knee is fine perhaps finer than it was before. Now go hurry up young girl.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely. See you again on Friday?”
“Yes.”
So Silvia hurried, already in Honey Hunt mode. She had a training with some guys from the local college wrestling team on her agenda and if she left Misses Phelps now she could perhaps squeeze in an extra thirty minutes in the gym.
(Stay crazy Honey Hunt. It´s worth it.)
Hopefully Pinocho was right. And if not what the hell?
It wasn´t like she had a choice anyway. It was in her blood.
Birmingham, Alabama
-------------------------------------
„Careful Misses Phelps. Yes. That is better.”
Anyone who had ever been in the ring with Honey Hunt would have been amazed at how gently Honey´s alter ego Silvia Huntington could adjust the position of the leg of an elderly woman who just had had knee surgery.
Silvia filled a niche by being a physiotherapist who visited her patients at home and saved them the often tedious journey to a hospital or a medical practice. She liked her job too. She liked helping people who had lost their mobility and suffered from pain regain some quality in life. She was also good enough in her job to be proud of what she accomplished.
But there was always that drop of bad conscience. Silvia always felt a bit guilty towards her patients.
Misses Phelps was a nice old lady who has lost her husband two years ago and then shattered her right knee in a fall last year. It had been a complicated surgery but now through gentle stretching, yoga and a good deal of stubbornness on the old ladies part she was almost pain free and able to walk again without a crutch or a cane.
Silvia was proud of the progress Misses Phelps made.
And still the bad conscience was gnawing on her.
It was because Silvia knew she wasn´t here with all her heart, sometimes not even with all her mind. Physiotherapy was what paid her bills but it was another life she really wanted to live.
She really wanted to be Honey Hunt.
Her patients deserved someone better, someone one-hundred percent dedicated to their well-being and not just seventy or eighty percent because the next wrestling gig was around the corner.
It was like an addiction, a drug, something Silvia wanted, something she needed. It was also a bit schizophrenic as Silvia thought of herself not as two different personas but as living two different lives, one belonging to Silvia Huntington and the other to Honey Hunt. It had been like that even before she had adopted here ring name, one normal life for a rational person and one wild life for a maniac.
The craziest thing was that Silvia knew full well what wrestling did to her. Eventually she´d be the one who would need physiotherapy to fight chronic pain.
She didn´t give a damn. It was really like doing drugs.
“Silvia?”
The gentle voice snapped her out of her daydream and she looked into the smiling face of Misses Phelps. Once again Silvia wondered. The old lady must have been stunning in her youth. You could still see it through the layer of wrinkles.
“Thinking of a man?” Misses Phelps inquired.
“I have a date later. Sort of.” Silvia moved Misses Phelps´ injured knee with outmost care, happy that the sinews responded again without resistance.
“Then you should hurry. You are young only once in your life.”
“We are not done yet.”
“You´ve done enough. That damned knee is fine perhaps finer than it was before. Now go hurry up young girl.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely. See you again on Friday?”
“Yes.”
So Silvia hurried, already in Honey Hunt mode. She had a training with some guys from the local college wrestling team on her agenda and if she left Misses Phelps now she could perhaps squeeze in an extra thirty minutes in the gym.
(Stay crazy Honey Hunt. It´s worth it.)
Hopefully Pinocho was right. And if not what the hell?
It wasn´t like she had a choice anyway. It was in her blood.