by Sean Ferrell
“I’m sure.”
He held the syringe and bottle of painkiller a moment, looking at the glass in my arm and then at me, uncertain what to do. He didn’t know who I was. I wanted to warn him he might end up in a movie for this.
“You’re sure?” He had trouble putting that syringe down.
“I don’t need it.”
He went to a cupboard and pulled out more gauze. As he did so, Hiko said, “Why did you break in? Why couldn’t you wait?”
“I had to see you. I had to do something.”
“Even if it was stupid,” she added.
I concentrated on my arm. Betadine poured from elbow to wrist turned my arm a deep orange-brown. The glass poked up brightly, shining under the surgical light. I felt a tingle along the edge of the glass where it entered my arm.
“Stupid is better than nothing,” I said.
She tilted her head toward me. “Maybe it is.”
“The doctor agrees,” the doctor said. “Now hold still.” With a firm grip on either side of the three-inch triangle he pulled. The glass made a sucking sound similar to nails as they are removed, but deeper, more substantial. Hiko squeezed my other hand as she listened. Another mysterious tingle ran through the cut as the doctor pulled the glass free. Blood quickly pooled in the gap the glass left behind and spilled over, ran down my arm.
Hiko said, “May I have the glass?”
The doctor looked at her, then me, eyes asking if crazy ran in her family. I asked her why.
“I was thinking I might use it in a new piece.”
I nodded. To the doctor I said, “She’s an artist.” He only raised his eyebrows in response, certain now that we were both insane. He brought out the needles and sutures to begin closing my arm.
The glass lay on the counter behind the doctor. It proved to be two inches longer than it had looked, the missing length having been in my arm. It rested on a pile of gauze, soaked in my blood. I asked Hiko, “What will you do with it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I decide.”
My attention pulled back to my arm as the doctor tugged the needle through the skin, reminding me of all the nails that had gone through me. But beneath the tugging there was another sensation, something hinting that it would get stronger. It grew—sharp, glaring, and persistent. Then the needle left my skin, pulling the suture behind, and the sensation left with it. I squeezed Hiko’s hand with my free one as the doctor brought the second suture in.
“I can’t believe you can’t feel this,” he said, and he pushed the needle through. Again, beneath the tug burned that other feeling, something I wanted to retreat from if it grew much larger, which it did. My arm twitched.
The doctor saw. “You sure you don’t want something for the pain?”
I lost my breath for a moment, then smiled at him. “No. Nothing for the pain. Thanks.”
He prepared the third suture and I lifted Hiko’s hand up as if to kiss it, then realized I needed to move slowly, give her time and give myself time too. I watched the needle hang over my arm; the open wound tingled again, longer than before, and then the tip of the needle, the infinitely small point, came against my skin. In that moment before it punched through I had hope that with that one needle, or the next, or the next, I would hurt. I watched as it came so close to breaking the skin. Unable to wait any longer, I began to lift my arm, just barely, hoping that if I could only meet it halfway, I might find my lost sensation and my fear of pain and, in finding it, move beyond it for good.
About the Author
SEAN FERRELL’s story “Building an Elephant” won the Fulton Prize from The Adirondack Review; his short stories have appeared in Bossa Nova Ink, WORDS, Uber, and The Cafe Irreal. He lives with his family in Brooklyn, New York. Numb is his first novel.
www.byseanferrell.com
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Credits
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover illustration by Michael Ahern
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
NUMB. Copyright © 2010 by Sean Ferrell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ferrell, Sean.
Numb: a novel/Sean Ferrell.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-194650-9
1. Amnesiacs—Fiction. 2. Congenital insensitivity to pain—Fiction. 3. Identity (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.E756N86 2010
813’.6—dc22
2009038720
EPub Edition © July 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-200542-7
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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