Colette (English Edition) E-Book

Tom Knocker

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Colette takes morphine due to an injury and visits a nightclub. There she meets an pharmaceutical salesman. Although he loves Colette, she's therapized into an drug addiction.

The translation of the novella may not be perfect. However, the author is not an anti-vaxer.

Leseprobe

Tom Knocker

Colette (English Edition)

The Hollowed Peach

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Info

C O L E T T E

THE HOLLOWED PEACH

New edition of the socially critical erotic novella

by

Thomas Neukum

MOTTO

These beings enjoy impure happiness,

but they are subjected to the suffering of impermanence

and therefore worthy of compassion.

BUDDHIST WISDOM

PROLOGUE

On the train, Colette put a Morphine pill on her spotless red tongue and swallowed it with flavored water from a plastic bottle. Then the tragic incident rushed by once more like a motley carousel behind her blonde forehead.

She was holding a razor blade against her wrist that night when this little slut sneaked into the room. Colette tried to forget her name. Because her friendship was as fake as her tits. She had blabbed to Colette's boyfriend – now ex-boyfriend – that he was being cheated on and cheated on again. They had a quarrel.

But was that really worth committing suicide? And why hadn't Colette locked the apartment door? She was backing away from the floozy who wanted to save her because of a bad conscience, but a good instinct. As a result, however, Colette fell so unlucky into the houseplant that she injured her spine.

She couldn’t stand the pain without prescribed medication. All this had happened in Bavaria, near Munich. Colette had moved there after high school graduation to become a trained hotel manageress and more independent from her rich parents. But now she was returning like a refugee through the passing autumnal landscape to her hometown, Hamburg.

"Are you all right?" asked Mona on the seat nearby. She had hurried to Bavaria alone at Colette's wish and taken care of everything necessary to pick her up. Mona's slender body was wrapped into a silver coat, and her black hair fell sharply to the middle of her neck.

Colette's mother didn't like her. Although Mona had attained her journalism degree on the second try, she earned her money with something else, something less decent. People like her were always attracted to Colette. But Mona had stayed a true friend, whether she was near or far.

"You know those candies that no longer taste good when the filling oozes out?" said Colette. "That's how I feel."

Mona patted her. "We're already rolling toward the main station."

In the huge hall waited the Goldsmiths, Colette's family.

Her red-blond, stocky and cheerful father once visited Belgium. Inspired by the cuisine of the country, he had founded the frozen fries company GoldsmitherZ in Germany and became a millionaire. He sometimes raised his finger, half in jest, half in earnest, and murmured all this would be proof of the family legend that the name came from Jews.

Her mother, a Belgian, worked in a hospice and had brown-gray hair. In her youth she glowed with sentiment. Although she could still sympathize with the passions of others, the quiet enjoyments mattered more to her today.

Colette's younger sister, Stefanie, studied Sociology and English with top grades. Tall as she got, she stood out from the crowd with her chestnut mane and a jade-green jacket. She was saving her innocence for Mr. Right.

Meanwhile, the passengers were pouring out of the carriage doors.

"Colette, my dear!" greeted the father while opening his arms. "After all, you do not look as hunchbacked as we feared. But you're puffing pretty hard. Let me take the luggage. And hello, Mona."

"Hello, everyone!"

"Thank you for your sacrificial help," Stefanie smiled.

"Nonsense," replied Mona, hugging her slightly. "Not helping my best friend, that would be a sacrifice."

"Anyway, you got through the journey reasonably well", stated Colette's mother. "Or are your symptoms bad, my dear?"

"I'm tired above all."

"A good home has yet put anyone together anew," her father said. He turned to the escalator and invited Mona, "You'll join us for a welcome drink, won't you?"

"Sure."

Mona got into her little VW at the dusky parking lot and the large limousine of the Goldsmiths drove on ahead. Colette sat uneasy beside Stefanie and did not realize her compassion nor her joy about the reunion. To the older sister, the younger was morally superior. Exemplarily Stefanie lived in a dormitory and seldom claimed the comforts of her parents' home. In contrast, Colette would move back into the house.

When everyone got out of the cars in the courtyard, her uneasiness faded a bit. They went into the moon-white mansion.

A colorful garland welcomed Colette in the living room as if celebrating a birthday. Dully, she heard a cork pop and the champagne was bubbling into glasses.

Yet her mother hesitated. "Are you even allowed to drink alcohol while taking painkillers?"

"One glass" – Colette mindlessly grabbed it – "that won't put me into the grave."

An embarrassed silence followed.

Mona wiped away the awkward feeling, "Yeah, merely savored in a large dose, it makes people morose. A cheer to Colette!"

"To Colette!" 

The blonde gulped it down. But when her mother started to make dinner, Colette excused herself with a sluggish voice, "I just wanna lay in my bed."

Stefanie hadn't even drank her foam. But of course, no one intended to deny Colette's needs.

Mona thanked them for the glass of champagne. "At least one can still drive straight after this", she winked in a challenging manner. Finally, she whispered to Colette at the front door, "Have a good rest! Tomorrow we'll get a real party going."

CHAPTER 1

Mona was the assistant manager of a sex club named Hedonica. As a large room with red leather couches, a midnight blue bar and corners for drugs, it could not be considered innovative. But on the one hand, Hamburg's red-light district St. Pauli was no longer the bustling hellhole it had been in the 1980s, and on the other, Mona knew how to generate good publicity. Unless she invited high-class hookers, she also got in touch with the customers herself.

"We ensure safety with condoms and medical tests, although everyone remains a free individual in our club," she explained to Colette on the mobile phone. "You don't need to take part, you can just peep. Any desire to come with me?"

"Desire … yes ... but my traumatic experience ... " Colettes response got lost in gasps and wheezes.

Together they went to Dr. Singer, a general practitioner and pulmonologist. He was about thirty-five years, a brilliant memorizer, sporty, devoted to a mediocre lifestyle and Mona's cousin. As a result, he both chided and admired her for living at full tilt.

After lung function checks, blood gas tests and X-rays, he diagnosed that Colette had asthma.

"And what's the cause?" asked Mona in the consulting room. "I mean, she didn't have it back in the days."

"Back in the days, you wouldn't have a broken leg or cancer either." Dr. Singer turned to Colette. "Opiates like Morphine may affect breathing, but not in that way. So given what you've said about suffering from stress and anxiety, I would consider that to be the cause."

Colette listened with her hands in her lap.

"As for the back injury, I must agree with my Bavarian colleague that physiotherapy makes more sense than surgery. On the whole, however, I think we should do the following. First, I'd like to prescribe you an asthma inhaler, namely Viani. Second, I recommend a sedative to block the anxiousness, simply Valium, which you should only take in critical situations and low doses. And third, we ought to change the Morphine to Tapentadol. Although this opioid is not as strong, it has proven excellent in the case of chronic back pain. Because without this change, you could become too tired and short of breath in combination with the Valium. Do you agree with all this?"

How should I know, Colette thought. Then she answered, "Yes, I agree."

"Fine, my assistant will give you the prescriptions, the explanations of use and another appointment. Get well soon!" said Dr. Singer.

Colette was bumming around at home. In the evening she nibbled salt sticks next to her parents while watching a TV report. Spontaneously, her mother told:

"We got a new cook at the hospice, some catholic guy. He wanted to make healthy meals like brown rice with salad and olive oil, so that the dying people would be better off. But they all grumbled. How the heck better, one croaked. If I have bad luck, if I have even MORE bad luck, then already this Christmas will play without me in the world theater. So I wanna taste for the last time the oversweetened foods from my childhood! Now the cook gets it."

Her many years of terminal care hadn't brought Colette's mother any closer to the afterlife. Absolutely not, she even denied the Bible as sheer poetry.

The fact that her daughter had so easily uttered the word "grave" at the welcome drink after the train ride seemed to have left the mother with a wrong impression. Because now Colette tensed up.