Litany of Needles
A jagged dagger pierces the skin [scream] then the familiar sight of blood, staining her white dress with a deep red akin to a Merlot. The spawn grips her wrist below the incision point with brutish, ugly hands. “We are now bound forever by the divine power of Satan and his many followers. You will fulfill His duties until your admittance to his holy kingdom of Hell.”
I must breathe, I tell myself. I don’t hate the hospital [yet I do]. It’s that time of year again. An annual physical is a mundane exercise we must go through to ensure we are living correctly. A to-do item for the fortunate souls who can access the spoils of health care. From birth to death, our lives are shaped through many consecutive stories, all bookended by the hospital. I suppose that may seem romantic, or poetic even, but the antiseptic linoleum holds no candle to the image of a nurturing midwife tending to a mother in the comfort of her home. A social comfort cut by the scalpel of modern medicine.
“Bless you,” I say as a man pelts snot across his lap. He pulls up his mask to wipe his nose and thank me. I turn back to the receptionist, who hands me a stack of forms and my ID. I take a pen marked “clean” and scan the room for an innocuous seat to pass the time. A lone chair beckons, a throne between a rambunctious girl and her mother and a man taking a snooze. Headphones on, I check off box after box: not diabetic, not pregnant, not on the verge of seizure. A death metal track by Autopsy shakes through my cans, compelling me to scribble in quick, darting strokes. I pause the music, chaotic symbols and gurgling groans, to walk over and hand back my clipboard. “Thank you,” says the receptionist rather warmly. I return to my chair, the toothpaste green seat with scratches on the armrests, and listen for my name while reflexively checking my phone.
After completing the requisite forms and confirming my identity, I’ve officially checked in, but as I’m sitting in the waiting room scrolling to infinity, I’ve officially checked out.
The woman writhed in pain, shrieking as the blood dripped down to her ankles. She pulled violently at the rope, but it tightened with each movement. Her breath escaped her exhausted body like gas from a chamber, and soon she fell limp. Suddenly, her eyes opened, appearing white as milk. Her body violently contorted and from it erupted a deep voice, “Gone is the light of God from my soul.”
Around me is a sea of sick beings with maladies and troubles only known to their PCP. Patients await a fate prescribed by Western medicine, a willing sacrifice of body and mind to the man in white. The beings follow their nurse down a hall, marching in order until they reach a florescent room. The door closes, but the procession is not complete. They must sit on sanitized paper, review their history, and confess their sins. Then, a diagnosis is presented. It is time to repent and submit to the needle of salvation.
I fidget in my chair, resting one leg over the other then back down again, before settling into a deep lounge. My watch is three minutes fast, so I press buttons in random order until it reads correctly. Nurse after nurse emerge from the doors, but I hear no familiar name to me.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. After bearing witness to patients of all ilk disappear through swinging doors, my name is finally called. I stand as nurse Abigail beckons me through the doors and down a hallway, entering an ecosystem of bustling doctors in scrubs. I follow her into a room that smells of tepid Lysol. The process begins.
“I’m just going to take your vital signs, okayyy?” nurse Abigail says, maintaining a familiar inflection. Curly-haired nurse Abigail has a pleasant air about her. She’s wearing purple scrubs, a wedding ring, and a small cross necklace.
“First, I’m going to check your blood pressure.”
I hold out my left arm like a marionette and let nurse Abigail wrap a black serpent around my bicep.
“It’s going to give you a bit of a hug, but you know that of course,” she says, smiling as she pumps the serpent full of air.
She reads out a number which I instantly forget.
“Your blood pressure looks good. Now I’m going to check your breathing, okayyy?”
I lower my arm and wait apprehensively on the paper-lined chair as nurse Abigail holds a cold stethoscope to my back.
“Give me a few deep breaths, mkay.”
I give more than a few deep breaths and await my next verdict.
“Okay, everything sounds good. Now I’m just going to check your height and weight and then the doctor will be in to see you, okayyy?”
I pass the next two tests with ease. I haven’t grown nor gained any noticeable weight in years nor believe in shoe inserts to boost my height. Nurse Abigail takes a clipboard and writes a few notes before disappearing out the door.
“You have been blessed by the ultimate power, the gift of eternal life, forever given to serve our Lord!” screams the spawn. He unshackles the woman, whose bleeding has dried to form a black scar. The spawn dances and howls around the woman, laughing and screaming as he beats the ground. The woman slowly regains sentience, walking, talking, but not as before.
