On September 2nd, on her way home from the office, Phoebe drove her car into an intersection. And she never drove out of it.
He car was struck by a driver doing just shy of 65mph.
She was thrown from the car. Her head hit a curb. It should have killed her.
At the hospital they first drilled holes to relieve the pressure on her brain. Then they removed part of skull to do the same.
Phoebe is in a coma. A deep, dark coma. The doctors said her brain activity was the lowest it could be for someone with any hope of regaining a normal life.
But the doctors didn't know everything. Her mind was actually very much at work. Very much alive. Very much active.
And it was active with sexual thoughts.
As she laid in that hospital bed with dozens of tubes and monitors and nurses and doctors and drugs and worried family and friends and co-workers, her mind was in a blessed dream state.
Hundreds of years back. Phoebe's family was one of nobility and fame. She knew of the stories. She had visited the castle in Finland. She had read deeply about Finnish history and how her family line fit into it.
As doctors and nurses cared for her, she in her dream state, she found herself walking a hall in that castle. She has no clothes on, but all her attendants do. She is a queen.
She walks a long, wide hall. On the walls are exquisite tapestries in bright colors. Between the tapestries are marble statues of family and busts of other nobility.
She walks naked. Proud. Tall. Lean. Fit. Confident. Noble. At ease.