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| Blood Work | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||||||||
| 21 June 2008 | ||||||||||||||||
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A bit of a departure for me.
Blood Work
At first, it appeared as a thin, red line, one drawn with the finest point of an architect’s pen. I stared the ultra-thin line on my forearm. It stared back…smiling. “Aren’t I the ultimate in precision and delicacy on a flesh canvass?” the smile whispered. “Yes,” I said in awe. “You are quite beautiful.” Now, I don’t normally talk to lines, smiling or frowning. I am not a novice coroner who might briefly admire the results of a first cut into a cadaver, but this line was leading me somewhere, and I felt my attention was required if I wanted to arrive at the destination. Although my interest in the aesthetics of the thin, red line I had so haphazardly carved into my forearm with and Xacto knife seemed to last forever, the actual temporal span was probably no more that it takes for a bird to fart. And, I don’t think my brain was firing on all cylinders. I continued to gaze at the wonderful forearm masterpiece of form and negative space; then it began to change. It started to shape shift. The precision was becoming imprecise. The entire length of the line began to ooze and undulate, forming crimson beads and balls that slid—some rapidly, others at a snail’s pace—down my arm, landing on the Saltillo tile of the kitchen floor. I felt liquid pressure build, like I was an oil derrick waiting for the earth to launch its prehistoric treasure into the West Texas sky. When the eruption came, it was brief and messy, splattering my face and clothes and the kitchen sink with red polka dots. Then, the pain arrived, followed by shock, and then panic, in rapid succession. Finally peace and euphoria settled in as I slowly slid down to the floor, which by now had taken on the appearance of a slaughterhouse. Sitting with my back against the cabinet below the sink, I heard whining. I opened my eyes to see Louie and Leo, the basset hounds, staring at me with sad eyes and disappointment. Louie licked my arm, sending a jolt of pain through me, and I cried out. He backed away. Louie’s ears twitch, as did Leo’s, and they padded over to the door that connects the kitchen to the garage. They sat staring at the door while their tails ran away with the moon. Moments later, my wife stepped though the door carrying her ever-present laptop and armful of folders. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored suit. Everything about her appearance screamed “I am a confident woman.” That confidence was shatter after she put down her laptop and rubbed the dog’s heads, then turned and saw me half laying, half sitting in a growing pool of blood. “Oh Jesus. Marshall, what happened,” she screamed as she ran toward me, trying not to slip in the coagulating wetness. I just smiled. I wasn’t dazed and confused, just slightly crazed and amused. Before I could say anything, she grabbed a dishtowel and tied it tightly on my arm above the thin, red line as a tourniquet. “Don’t move,” she commanded as she moved to the phone on the wall and dialed 911. I watch through heavy lidded eyes as Abby, my beautiful wife, barked orders and information into the phone. I couldn’t make out the words, but I assumed she was giving directions to our semi-dazzling suburbanite home. Abby glowed. The pulsing in my arm slowed, the pain in my brain was tolerable, and for once in a very long time, the ache in my heart was barely noticeable. Abby returned the phone to its cradle and returned to my side and tried to lift me into a more stable sitting position. The sitting thing didn’t work out too well, and I slumped over onto her lap. She cradled me in her arms; tears forming at the corners of her finely shadowed eyes. The tile floor seemed to grow colder as sorrow entered into the mix. Abby’s Ann Klein suit was soaked with splotches of my blood. “I’m sorry baby,” I said, still smiling, “I know this is your favorite outfit.” “Don’t worry about that Marsh, just stay still and hang in there. The paramedics should be here soon.” She said this like a mother consoling an ailing child. “Marsh, what happened here,” she asked gently rocking me in her arms. “Well,” I said drowsily, “I was excavating my arm in search of my soul, but all this red stuff fell out before I could find it. Do you see it on the floor anywhere?” “No, I don’t baby.” I didn’t seem as funny to her as it did to me. “Oh God, hurry,” she cried. “I’m sorry Ab. I didn’t think there would be such a mess. It seems I’ve underestimated my power to screw things up.” As the vague singsong of a siren came within earshot, she held me closer. “Don’t die Marshall, please don’t die.” “You know Ab, I didn’t do this for the attention…or maybe I did. Anyway, at the time, I thought I could find something in me that was real. Something I could look at and touch, something that cold prove to me I was real, you know?” She obviously didn’t know. Tears were bathing her cheeks, and a little of her mascara had run. God she was beautiful…she was always beautiful. “Hey pumpkin seed, I’m not going to die,” I said with a chuckle. The reality was, I thought I was already dead. Suddenly, the kitchen was filled with blue-shirted, competent-looking paramedics. They pried me from Abby’s arms and deftly went to work, decorating my anemic body with tubes and bandages as they carefully monitored some cool-looking, high-tech medical machines that made hospital noises. They asked me some questions; Abby answered them. All I wanted to do was smile. When they lifted me onto a gurney, I remember asking if anyone had stepped on my soul. My question was ignored. I was wheeled outside where several of the neighbors had gathered on my recently manicured lawn like news reporters at a train wreck. After the medics placed me in the mobile box with swirling blue lights on top, I look out the back door and yelled—I think it was a yell anyway—“If any of you find my soul, leave it by the garage door.” Abby sat next to me, holding my hand. The ambulance pulled away, and I closed my eyes for what seemed like a very long time.
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