Read Online Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? by Wendy Williams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wendy Williams
Ads: Link
moving her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes.
“Welcome back, stranger,” Dr. Grevious said, smiling. He took out his light and checked her pupils. There was still some swelling around her eyes, so he was very gentle. Ritz tried to talk, but it was painful. It felt like she had swallowed a bunch of chopped glass. The tube they had shoved down her throat to feed her had made her throat raw. Her eyes hurt. Her head was pounding. She couldn't take a deep breath without feeling a stabbing pain. The grimace that was etched across her face told the story.
“Nurse, get Ms. Harper some morphine, stat!” Dr. Grevioussaid. He smiled at Ritz. “The worst part is over, Ms. Harper. We're going to focus now on getting you back on your feet.”
Ritz opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and she felt pain all around the sockets. Her head pounded, as if the entire cast from
Drumline
were practicing in her head:
Rat-a-tat-tat
! Her chest hurt, her knees hurt, her side hurt. She was a bundle of pain.
Tears streaked down the sides of her face, creating another kind of hot pain that started from somewhere inside. The great Ritz Harper, the “Queen of All Media,” was flat on her back and helpless. Ritz prided herself on her independence. Since her mother died, she had lived as if she could rely on no one but herself.
At the tender age of ten, Ritz decided she was going to take care of herself. She appreciated her aunt and uncle for raising her, giving her a home, and loving her, but Ritz never relied on them. She always had odd jobs as a kid. She sold flowers in the neighborhood, flowers she plucked from her aunt's garden. She did chores for a fee. Ritz wasn't afraid of work. And she saved every penny. She was not miserly, but she was afraid— afraid of being alone and helpless. While outsiders didn't understand the method to her madness, Ritz knew exactly what she was doing when she would pay cash for her car and try to pay off her home as quickly as possible. Financial advisors told her that what she was doing was stupid, that you spend other people's money, that loans are your friends. To Ritz, a loan was a dependency on somebody else, and that didn't work for her. If something happened, theycould come and take her car or take her home and she would be left with nothing. She wanted to own her stuff— outright. She didn't want anyone to be able to take anything from her— not even her life. She fought hard every day to live, because she wanted whoever had the audacity to try and take her life to feel her wrath.
To Ritz, life was all about power and control. She wanted the power and she wanted the control. Power and control were her twin babies, and she would give those babies to no one— not for one minute, not for one second.
And now she was laid up in a hospital bed, completely powerless with zero control. She couldn't even take herself to the bathroom. Her most humiliating experience was the day she soiled her sheets and two orderlies had to come in and literally lift her from her bed while the nurse cleaned the bed, changed her sheets, and washed her.
Ritz was screaming inside. She was Ritz Fucking Harper, not some damn invalid who had to have her ass wiped by someone. But at the moment, she was an invalid who had to have her ass wiped for her.
Some of the nurses were surly. Ritz was given the deluxe star treatment, complete with a private room and other amenities that were found more at the Ritz-Carlton than in a hospital. But the staff was still the hospital staff. Ritz had four nurses who worked eight-hour shifts. Two of them were nice, but two acted like they did not want to be there. They treated her like they hated her. One was so rude that, if Ritz had any strength whatsoever, she would have slapped her.
But she could barely move, let alone haul off and slap someone. She was completely at everyone's mercy. Her biggest nightmare was what happened to the Uma Thurman character in
Kill Bill
when she was in a coma
“Welcome back, stranger,” Dr. Grevious said, smiling. He took out his light and checked her pupils. There was still some swelling around her eyes, so he was very gentle. Ritz tried to talk, but it was painful. It felt like she had swallowed a bunch of chopped glass. The tube they had shoved down her throat to feed her had made her throat raw. Her eyes hurt. Her head was pounding. She couldn't take a deep breath without feeling a stabbing pain. The grimace that was etched across her face told the story.
“Nurse, get Ms. Harper some morphine, stat!” Dr. Grevioussaid. He smiled at Ritz. “The worst part is over, Ms. Harper. We're going to focus now on getting you back on your feet.”
Ritz opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and she felt pain all around the sockets. Her head pounded, as if the entire cast from
Drumline
were practicing in her head:
Rat-a-tat-tat
! Her chest hurt, her knees hurt, her side hurt. She was a bundle of pain.
Tears streaked down the sides of her face, creating another kind of hot pain that started from somewhere inside. The great Ritz Harper, the “Queen of All Media,” was flat on her back and helpless. Ritz prided herself on her independence. Since her mother died, she had lived as if she could rely on no one but herself.
At the tender age of ten, Ritz decided she was going to take care of herself. She appreciated her aunt and uncle for raising her, giving her a home, and loving her, but Ritz never relied on them. She always had odd jobs as a kid. She sold flowers in the neighborhood, flowers she plucked from her aunt's garden. She did chores for a fee. Ritz wasn't afraid of work. And she saved every penny. She was not miserly, but she was afraid— afraid of being alone and helpless. While outsiders didn't understand the method to her madness, Ritz knew exactly what she was doing when she would pay cash for her car and try to pay off her home as quickly as possible. Financial advisors told her that what she was doing was stupid, that you spend other people's money, that loans are your friends. To Ritz, a loan was a dependency on somebody else, and that didn't work for her. If something happened, theycould come and take her car or take her home and she would be left with nothing. She wanted to own her stuff— outright. She didn't want anyone to be able to take anything from her— not even her life. She fought hard every day to live, because she wanted whoever had the audacity to try and take her life to feel her wrath.
To Ritz, life was all about power and control. She wanted the power and she wanted the control. Power and control were her twin babies, and she would give those babies to no one— not for one minute, not for one second.
And now she was laid up in a hospital bed, completely powerless with zero control. She couldn't even take herself to the bathroom. Her most humiliating experience was the day she soiled her sheets and two orderlies had to come in and literally lift her from her bed while the nurse cleaned the bed, changed her sheets, and washed her.
Ritz was screaming inside. She was Ritz Fucking Harper, not some damn invalid who had to have her ass wiped by someone. But at the moment, she was an invalid who had to have her ass wiped for her.
Some of the nurses were surly. Ritz was given the deluxe star treatment, complete with a private room and other amenities that were found more at the Ritz-Carlton than in a hospital. But the staff was still the hospital staff. Ritz had four nurses who worked eight-hour shifts. Two of them were nice, but two acted like they did not want to be there. They treated her like they hated her. One was so rude that, if Ritz had any strength whatsoever, she would have slapped her.
But she could barely move, let alone haul off and slap someone. She was completely at everyone's mercy. Her biggest nightmare was what happened to the Uma Thurman character in
Kill Bill
when she was in a coma
Similar Books
