Best 7 quotes in «concussion quotes» category

A slight concussion of the brain simplifies matters so beautifully. ("Three O'Clock")

And how is your head? Better?" he asked. "Very much. Sometimes it hurts." Right now it was throbbing. "But every day I am much improved." "Where did you hit it? Are you bruised?" I put a hand to the back of my head, a little to the left, where I had landed with such jarring force. "Here," I said. "It's still a little tender." And leaning forward, he touched my hair right where I had just laid my hand. Such was he glamour that attended him that I expected the ache to instantly melt away, healed by his royal caress. But in fact, I felt a sudden leap in my heart that made the pain briefly more intense.

A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head.

I am concussed,' I announced, entirely sure of my self-diagnosis. ''You're fine,' Takumi said as he jogged back towards me. ''Let's get out of here before we're killed.'' ''I'm sorry,' I said. ''But I can't get up. I have suffered a mild concussion.'' Lara ran out and sat down next to me. ''Are you OK?'' ''I am concussed,'' I said. Takumi sat down with me and looked me in the eye. ''Do you know what happened to you?'' ''The beast got me.'' ''Do you know where you are?'' ''I'm on a triple-and-a-half date.'' ''You're fine,'' Takumi said. ''Let's go.'' And then I leaned forward and threw up on Lara's pants.

My foggy brain slid away and— And I was still dressed in only my bra and panties. Well, at least it’s a nice set of bra and panties. Yep, these were the thoughts going through my brain as I looked at a photo of a decapitated head on my bed.

She had signed her own death-warrant. He kept telling himself over and over that he was not to blame, she had brought it on herself. He had never seen the man. He knew there was one. He had known for six weeks now. Little things had told him. One day he came home and there was a cigar-butt in an ashtray, still moist at one end, still warm at the other. There were gasoline-drippings on the asphalt in front of their house, and they didn't own a car. And it wouldn't be a delivery-vehicle, because the drippings showed it had stood there a long time, an hour or more. And once he had actually glimpsed it, just rounding the far corner as he got off the bus two blocks down the other way. A second-hand Ford. She was often very flustered when he came home, hardly seemed to know what she was doing or saying at all. He pretended not to see any of these things; he was that type of man, Stapp, he didn't bring his hates or grudges out into the open where they had a chance to heal. He nursed them in the darkness of his mind. That's a dangerous kind of a man. If he had been honest with himself, he would have had to admit that this mysterious afternoon caller was just the excuse he gave himself, that he'd daydreamed of getting rid of her long before there was any reason to, that there had been something in him for years past now urging Kill, kill, kill. Maybe ever since that time he'd been treated at the hospital for a concussion. ("Three O'Clock")

The wave of memory had submerged me for a whole minute, while I'd just sat staring and let it all come flooding back.