Dear processproduct, I took the liberty to continue your story.
The girl’s mother had invited the highly educated, the experimentalists, the quacks and the insurers. Over canapés and sparkling waters she had listened, patiently, to all that was said on her daughter’s condition. It was rare, extremely rare even. It had been featured on a TV show, that’s how rare it was. There was no cure. There was also no real need for the doctors to sit on her couch and munch on her food, costing her a fortune out of pocket for these consultations. One man said he was trained in hypnosis and could at least make the girl’s pain visible in her mind, in colors of her choosing. The mother nodded and showed him the door.
In monkey-speak, one screech meant the girl was about to hurt herself. Two high-pitched screeches meant the mother had to come running and put bandaids on, call an ambulance, stop running blood or close open wounds. Check the head for bruises. Watch if her girl developed vertigo or threw up. No screech or human voice meant the two of them were asleep on the floor or couch, the girl breathing in monkey odor and the monkey losing hair all over the girl’s pants. In these rare, extremely rare moments, it could even be featured on a TV show, that’s how rare the silence was, the mother put on a kettle of tea, locked the living room door behind her and sobbed over all the opportunities missed for both of them.