Bleed

by Lori Michelle

  I felt unnaturally aware of the port in my own chest, just below my right shoulder, like a splinter. I felt light-headed.

  “Puke-risk!” shouted Masher. “Pull yourself together!”

  But it was too late. I dropped to the floor and vomited my guts out.

  ***

  Ghost lay in one of the Pits, grey as winter clouds. He was conscious now, but something behind his eyes had stayed dead.

  Once Doc had replaced Ghost’s port, the Pit had done its job; drained the rest of his blood away and preserved his body for a while, then slowly fed his blood back in. Brought him back from beyond the veil. He spoke occasionally, to request water or pain relief. He moved when instructed to for his physiotherapy. But he didn’t seem whole anymore.

  I sat next to him, reading him one of the classic novels that had been preloaded onto my tablet. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. I knew the others thought I was weird for spending time with him, but they left me alone. The whole base had been pretty subdued since Ghost tried to kill himself. Masher’s energy for mutiny had certainly vanished.

  I found that I’d stopped reading. I’d been staring at the page, but couldn’t focus. Ghost was staring at the ceiling, oblivious. My mind kept plummeting back to Lucy Pinner’s last letter.

  I’d received it three days before. In it she spoke of the play she’d been writing, her insomnia, a pending audition for a TV ad, the unsanitary toilet habits of her flatmate’s cat; and, right at the end, a passing mention that she and Don had been seeing each other for the last few months.

  She’d written before of having been on dates, of relationships that had fizzled out before they’d really started—that hadn’t bothered me. But sleeping with my best friend? Whenever I thought about it my stomach hurt so much I couldn’t speak.

  Doc walked in, hesitating at the doorway when he saw me. “Mind if I . . . ?” he said, pointing at Ghost.

  I nodded.

  He adjusted a dial on the Pit that controlled Ghost’s sedation level. Ghost closed his eyes and became even less responsive than usual. Doc sat next to the Pit and set about replacing the bandages on Ghost’s port.

  “You’ve been a bit preoccupied lately,” said Doc.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Ghost’ll be all right,” Doc said, consoling. “If that’s what’s bugging you.”

  Again, a silence stretched between us. I tried to find words. “I . . . he . . . I mean . . . why don’t you let him die?”

  Doc’s face fell into a humourless frown. “It’s not his decision to make.”

  “Up here, we’ve got nothing,” I stammered. “It’s the only thing we can choose anymore.”

  “The safety and function of the base relies on a full complement of crew. You signed up to this deal when you came aboard. You are not permitted to die.”

  “Haven’t you got any sense of mercy?” I said, blinking back a tear. “Damn your Hippocratic oath. The only way to help this man is to let him make his own choice.”

  Doc’s face softened. Pity? Woe? I couldn’t tell. “Think of his future,” he said. “Think of his family and friends.”

  “They would tell you to let him die too.”

  “They would at least want to say goodbye. They have the right.”

  “We’re basically dead already. This is no life. We put so much effort into clinging on, and for what? So we can go through the same tiny hell for another day. For another thousand days.”

  Doc looked down. Said nothing.

  I sighed deeply, feeling suddenly angry that my eyes had watered up. I wanted to smash my tablet on the floor and stomp into the pressure lock without my suit on. But the feeling dissipated, leaving my heart heavy, as if a piece of my soul had evaporated. “Sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s not your fault.”

  Doc gave me an infinitely gentle look, like he wanted to enfold me in his arms and let me sob my problems away. But something held him back. A veneer of professionalism? Misplaced machismo? His own fear of falling apart?

  He’d always seemed so confident, as if this terribly claustrophobic existence held no discomfort for him, as if he was in his element. But for a split second I saw past the mask. I saw a frightened child. I saw myself.

  ***

  It felt unreal when we got news that the shuttle was arriving. Six Earth years had passed, and it was finally time to go home. There was a frenzy of activity to unload the supplies, load up the titanium, prepare for the Pit, revive the new crew. I’ve never been happier to see a corpse!

  By then the seven of us were old hands, bound together by shared scars. Older than before. Masters of our tiny realm. We cultivated a carnival atmosphere, collectively suppressing the nerves that niggled at the back of our minds. Going home was to be celebrated, purely; voicing any doubt was taboo. Even Ghost managed a tiny smile.

  We showed around the befuddled new crew. I felt bad for them; I wanted to warn them how hard it would be, but there were no words, so I settled for upbeat platitudes. And then it was time for us to enter the Pit. We had done all the material preparation, but suddenly I panicked that I was mentally far from ready.

  But the sickness took over, and it was done.

  I woke up bleary-eyed, saw that I was in the Corps Medical Centre back on Earth. I felt the same jarring vertigo, as my brain denied with all its might that six more years and four million miles had passed.

  An old woman kissed me on the cheek. I looked at her, confused. She stood back—my mother was standing next to her, with a strange man wearing an even stranger fashion of jeans and U-neck shirt. But she couldn’t be my mother, she was too young.

  No; she was my sister. Zelda. And the man standing next to her—her son. My nephew. So the old lady was . . .

  “Mum!” I cried, and tears filled my eyes, falling in rivulets to my temples.

  The four of us wept or fidgeted or tried to smile, but none of us found a word to say. Finally, my mum broke the silence. She leant over, navigating around the tubes that protruded from my body, and gave me an awkward hug. “Welcome home, Archer.”

  Archer. My name was Archer. And I was home. I smiled more widely than I had done for years.

  I got out of there as soon as I could, and I was on a high for days. I stayed with my mother, spending each day just walking around the city. I revelled in feeling healthy, safe. The sun felt like a caress. I felt drunk on the smells of grass, and exhaust fumes, and hot bread, and summer air—the noise of life was like music. For twenty minutes I stood in the park, enthralled by the innocent energy of a pet puppy. I sat in a cafe and took two hours to finish one cup of coffee.

  A week passed, my hair started growing back a little, and my mum suggested I get in touch with my old friends. I realised I had been trying not to think of them, as if meeting them again would spoil the memory of how we were before. But once I decided it was time, my nerves sublimated into excitement. I told myself it wouldn’t be like old times, but it would be all right.

  “I want to see Lucy,” I said.

  My mum’s lips tightened and she asked me to sit down. “I didn’t tell you before, because . . . ” she hesitated. Cleared her throat. “Four years ago, while you were travelling, Lucy and Don got married.”

  I nodded. Looked at the floor.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “No, it’s—ok,” I said. My mind was a swirl of emotions, but a sharp beam of light cut through the fog and convinced me that it really was ok.

  ***

  I rang the bell, took a long, deep breath. The door opened, and there stood Lucy Pinner, looking about twelve months pregnant. When she saw me, her jaw hit the floor. “Archie.”

  “Lucy,” I said. “You look . . . old.”

  She stared at me a moment like she’d been slapped in the face. Then she laughed, and the years fell away. She waddled down onto the porch, put her arms around me and gave me a deeply inappropriate kiss. I felt stirred in ways I’d forgotten I could.

  “You always knew how to
charm the ladies,” she said, smiling broadly.

  “Hey, you had it coming.”

  “I have been a very bad girl.”

  “I forgive you. Let’s kiss again before your husband gets here.”

  “Oh, you cad.”

  “What can I say, I can’t resist you.”

  “You mean, I can’t be resisted.” She half-smiled, her head tilted, her chestnut eyes looking deep into mine. She kept her arms locked around me, the bump of her tummy pressing against my stomach. Her brow creased. “I know you’re the one who had to go away, but you don’t know how difficult it’s been.”

  I nodded, held my palm to her cheek.

  “I waited,” she said. “Tried to wait. But I convinced myself . . . I thought you’d never come back. Don was an absolute gentleman. I was a wreck, he looked after me for years.”

  “Are you happy?” I said.

  Her expression was impossible to read. She held up a finger, pressed it gently against my lips. “You’d better come inside.”

  I followed her in. She led me through the hall into the lounge. I sat at the edge of a pleasantly worn sofa; she gave me a compact smile, then walked out of the room. As I waited for her to return my eyes scanned the bookshelves. Biographies of famous actresses were mixed in with mining textbooks. There was a row of framed pictures of Lucy and Don together. He’d gained a few pounds and wrinkles, his hair was silvering, but he looked happy. They looked happy together. My stomach churned.

  At the end of the row was a picture of me.

  I heard Lucy padding back into the room behind me. I turned to her, smiling, and my smile froze solid. She stood before me, glowing with soft energy, wearing not a stitch. I knew as soon as I saw her that this image would burn itself into my mind for the rest of my life.

  “Don . . . ?” I said

  “He’s away.” Her smile was like a cat’s. I let my eyes explore her, savouring the moment. She glided to the sofa and lay across it, resting her head on my lap. I was tense, at first, but eventually I relaxed, letting myself melt into the sofa cushions.

  “I can’t believe you’re back,” she said.

  “I can’t believe you’re pregnant.”

  She laughed. I stroked her hair and we sat there together, saying nothing for a while.

  “How long before they call you up for another tour?” she asked.

  “Dunno. Could be weeks, could be years. My experience’ll probably qualify me for another ridiculously distant assignment.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “At least life up there is pretty simple.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I wish I had the choice.”

  She didn’t say anything after that, and neither did I, until the sun went down. At some point she’d fallen asleep. I stood up as slowly as I could, covered her with a blanket, and left.

  As I sat on the train I thought about my future. I had money, and freedom, for now; I was healthy. Maybe I’d go away somewhere. Maybe the best gift I could give to Lucy and Don would be to leave them alone. Or maybe it was for my sake. The longer I thought, the less I knew.

  When I got home to my mother’s house, I saw a letter from the Space Corps waiting for me on the dining table. I went to bed, leaving it unopened.

  EARS

  Eli Wilde

  Eli Wilde is a UK writer based in the North East of England. After completing a Master’s in Creative Writing at Teesside University, he attempted to write stories involving people who don’t already have a voice in fiction. Eli’s story in the anthology–Ears, is about Fergus, who takes on a new job without realising the man he is employed to keep amused is not really a man. He was touched by cancer in his early twenties. He was just getting to know his father when it took him away from him. Eli hates this malignant intruder like he hates leaving things too late to make a difference.

  The main beam of the Volvo illuminated the country road like a black and white tunnel shifting in a dry electric storm. Shady hedgerows and bare-leafed trees flashed by too quickly and Fergus eased off the accelerator. If he hadn’t slowed down, his black and white journey would have twisted into red. Pressing down hard on the brakes, the Volvo screeched to a dead stop. Fergus’ breathing quickened as the adrenaline rush took hold. He stared at the road ahead. A family of badgers stood immobile in the middle of the road. They waited in line, the boar at the head, two cubs in the middle and a sow at the rear. The boar stared back at him, as if it was slightly concerned, but no more than that. Its black and white fur bristled in the car headlights, while its eyes gleamed intelligence. It raised its head, as if saluting Fergus, acknowledging his braking skills.

  Fergus relaxed his grip on the steering wheel.

  The two young cubs began to fidget. The sow nipped the nearest cub and it settled them down. As the boar started to move, the rest of the family followed his lead before slipping away into the darkness beyond the bushes at the side of the road.

  When they were gone, Fergus thought back to that day at the beach. The sun; low in the sky but still warm, turned everything into silhouette. They walked in line, across the flat, sandy beach with Fergus at the head, their two children in the middle and Katherine at the rear. Watching their shadows trace ridiculous steps at their side, laughter tripped the breeze. He always went back to that day whenever he felt down. Thinking about the boar at the head of his family, Fergus wondered if it ever felt down. If it had a place inside its mind where it could escape from responsibility.

  Twenty minutes later, Fergus pulled the Volvo into the unobtrusive car park that gave no indication of the importance to the building it supported. He was reluctant to get out of the car. Although he had worked at Glinka for over three months, today was the first day he would be introduced to the man. He had been instructed not to call him by any name until the man told him what he wanted to be called. Everyone received a different name when they were first introduced. When Fergus eventually got out of the car, he slowly made his way to the glass entranceway, swiped his security pass across the reader and waited for the door to open.

  ‘Morning,’ Fergus said to the guard as he entered the reception area.

  As usual, the sullen guard barely nodded his head in response.

  At the changing room, Fergus met his mentor, Patrick Wainwright. They small talked while Fergus removed his clothing and replaced it with the sterile area clothing which consisted of latex gloves, a non-shedding boiler suit, a hood that covered all of his face apart from his eyes and knee length boots that he fastened around his legs with ties. At each stage of the changing procedure, he sprayed his gloved hands with antiseptic solution to reduce the bio burden his body naturally produced. Staring at himself in the stainless steel mirror, he completed the changing procedure by placing the irradiated goggles over his eyes and once more sprayed his gloved hands.

  ‘You’re a natural at this,’ Wainwright said when he had finished. ‘You’ve passed all of the micro tests without a single bacterial growth count. They don’t come any more sterile than Fergus Peterson.’

  ‘It’s all of your training.’ Fergus smiled behind the hooded mask he wore.

  ‘Speaking of training, I know I’ve said this over and again, but it’s worth repeating.’

  ‘Don’t mention the crucifixion, right?’

  Wainwright smiled, ‘Right. And if he does, don’t respond. He will only get agitated.’

  ‘I guess it’s time to go meet him now.’

  ‘Yes it is. Good luck Fergus.’

  Wainwright typed the code into the keypad and the door into the man’s chamber opened. Fergus stepped inside and the door immediately closed behind him.

  Through the glass partition Fergus saw the man sitting on a seat in the middle of the room with his head bowed and his hands clamped on each side of his head. He couldn’t see or feel the air flow, but he knew there was a positive pressure cascading from the centre of the room outwards to reduce micro-organism contamination inside the man’s quarters. The whole facility had be
en designed and standard operating procedures introduced to ensure the man remained protected from contamination.

  ‘I can’t hear Him speak anymore.’ The man said.

  ‘Can’t hear who speak?’

  ‘God, of course, who else did you think?’

  ‘Why can’t you hear Him speak?’

  The man raised his head and lowered his hands. ‘Because I cut off my ears,’ he said.

  Fergus stared at where the man’s ears should have been. In place of his ears, he saw two bloody patches of skin and two bloodied holes.

  ‘Get my ears back,’ the man said as he stood and walked towards the glass. ‘Get them to me now and sew them back on!’

  ‘Where are they?’ Fergus asked.

  The man’s eyes blinked rapidly before he answered. ‘I flushed them down the toilet,’ he said, pressing his hands against the side of his head once more.

  ***

  ‘He is calm now,’ Wainwright said. ‘He is asking for you.’

  It was the day after the man had cut off his ears. Fergus was in the changing room. He was dressed in sterile garments but didn’t want to go back into the sterile suite. He didn’t want to see the man ever again.

  ‘I don’t . . . ’

  ‘You signed a contract. Your family will suffer if you do not fulfil your obligations.’

  Fergus knew what he was getting into, but hearing the threat spoken so bluntly for the first time made him flinch internally.

  ‘Fuck you, Wainwright.’ Fergus said.

  ‘As long as you fulfil your obligations, you can fuck me any which way you like.’

  Fergus turned his back on Wainwright and sprayed his hands with the sterilising solution. ‘When I am finished in there with him, I want to fuck you with a barbed broom shank. Can you arrange that for later?’ Without waiting for a reply, Fergus walked over to the doorway as Wainwright typed in the key code. When the door opened, he took a deep breath and stepped through. The man was sitting in the centre of his space behind the glass partition. He must have asked for a straightjacket, because he was strapped into one. The top half of his head had been bandaged. Two small spots of blood were visible either side of his head. He stared at the floor as Fergus walked up to the glass.