Bleed

by Lori Michelle

  I have always harbored the secret desire to see my writing go viral on the internet. Right before the diagnosis meeting with the doctors, I chanted “Go viral! Come on, Spencer. Go viral!” hoping that his sickness was nothing more than an everyday virus. No such luck. What started as a simple fever had turned into a diagnosis of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia within days. This was a sucker punch to the spirit of our family. After my initial mental breakdown at hearing the news, I shut my emotions off.

  I can’t punch the walls like I want to. I can’t scream like I need to. I can’t even cry like I should. If I give in, I will probably end up as a patient in the psych ward here, helping no one.

  So I don’t give in. I hide behind smile masks and I talk to my therapist and I ask my psychiatrist to up my antidepressants and I try to deal with the shock, the fear, the self-pity (‘Why us? Seriously? Seriously?’) without feeling the bad feelings. I cling to the good feelings because they are my shield against the insanity I know I deserve.

  And I smoke as often as I can. Stress will do that. And I cope with humor. I told one parent, who was now concerned for his own child simply from hearing my story in the smokers’ area, not to be worried. There are a certain amount of diagnoses a year and with Spencer’s diagnosis, his child’s odds just got better.

  Back in the room that has become our home, I turn from the window and greet our visitor. Tall with sun spun hair and startlingly beautiful, blue eyes, Chris Schaffer is a nurse practitioner. Her being radiates warmth and puts me at ease, which is difficult to do at the moment.

  “Hey, Spencer! How are you today?” Her melodic voice soothes me further as she steps through the doorway, squirts hand sanitizer into her palm and rubs it in without missing a step or wasting a movement.

  Spencer glares at her from the bed as he continues to drink his chocolate milk and looks back to the TV. Apparently, she is not worth his majesty’s time today. Picking up on his oh-so-subtle hint, Chris turns her focus to me.

  “How’s he feeling?”

  “Hungry.” I laugh.

  “I know.” She smiles at me. “The steroids will do that. He’s loving that chocolate milk, though, huh?”

  I glance around the room and see the empty cartons littering all the rolling tables and counters. I grimace. In the tank, all elements of life are on display . . . including housekeeping skills . . . in my case, the lack thereof. I am constantly apologizing to the staff (especially housekeeping) about the mess. However, it is a little bit easier to clean here as opposed to at home where four other people live. Plus, here, the nurses change the bedding and housekeeping sweeps and mops.

  I lower the head of the bed and busy myself changing Spencer’s diaper. Chris waits in silence for me to finish this task and then another few seconds as I place Spencer’s dirty diaper on the metal shelf in the bathroom . . . right next to the scale that will be used later to weigh it and the other two that are waiting. What goes in must come out. Spencer has a saline drip and they want to make sure that his body is processing the way it needs to. I joke with the nurses that they need to start weighing the sheets to get more accurate results. With all the IV fluids he is getting, Spencer wets the bed two or three times a day, soaking right through diapers.

  As I leave the bathroom, I see myself in the mirror. I look tired, with large, dark circles under my hazel eyes. My mousey blondish brown hair should be red but I can’t color it right now. It is swept under a red bandanna because it desperately needs to be cut but I will not leave the hospital for a haircut. My freckles pop against my pale cheeks and nose. I need to pluck my eyebrows. I sigh, plaster a smile on my face and leave the bathroom.

  When I return, Chris asks me if Spencer is having any pain.

  “You know? I saw him rubbing his hand on his jaw earlier. Of course, when I asked him about it he, told me it was, ‘Nothing, Mumma. Nothing.’” As I speak, she nods in understanding.

  “Okay.” She says. “We’ll get him some morphine. Did you have any questions for me?”

  I think back over the past week. My mind is foggy from information overload and sheer exhaustion. I shake my head and look around our tank, resplendent in its sterility and I hesitate.

  “Can I . . . borrow you . . . out in the hall?” I ask Chris as I look at my baby, still sipping his chocolate milk and watching Spiderman.

  “Sure.” She smiles.

  “Thanks.” I return her smile with relief.

  We step into the hallway and stand in front of the painting of Buzz Lightyear that adorns our window.

  “So . . . ” I begin and I hesitate, unsure of what I am asking and how to ask. “So . . . we were wondering about Spencer’s pets . . . ” I begin and I pause yet again.

  “Why? What does he have? Dogs? Cats?” Chris asks.

  “No. Spencer has worms.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Worms?”

  “Worms.” I confirm.

  “How did he get into worms?” She is interested. I smile and pull out the memory that defines our path toward worm farming.

  “Well, he would come outside with me when I wanted to work in the garden. He would pull up the plants and dig holes. I would replant my plants. He found a worm and after that, all he wanted to do in the garden was dig for worms.

  “One night we had to go inside because it was dark out. Spencer threw a fit because he wanted to look for more worms. As a last ditch effort, I suggested we go inside to check the computer for wormy videos.

  “We looked at worm videos that night and many, many after. I learned about worm composting. I made a couple of bins. Now we have three bins. I was wondering if it is okay for him to still play with his worms.”

  “I don’t see why not. You just need to remember good hand washing after he plays with them.”

  Relief washes over me. “So . . . he doesn’t have to—I was worried he was going to be told to get rid of them. You know . . . germs . . . bad immune system . . . ”

  “No! In fact—you said you had bins for them?”

  “Yeah. We have three of them. Two are like fourteen gallons. Then, we have a shoebox sized one for Spencer to dig through. You know, less worms for him to traumatize.” All of a sudden, looking at the glint in her eyes, I realize where I think she is going with her question.

  “Could he have them here?” Before the words are even out of my mouth, she is nodding her head in agreement.

  “Sure! I think that would be a great idea! And I have to say, I’m really curious to see them. In terms of germs, it’s no worse than cat poop. Just—like I said—really good hand washing.”

  “Oh, thank you so much! He’s gonna be super excited! Thank you!”

  I burst into our false homey-home. There is room for the two of us and maybe one more. We can walk around, but only within the Children’s Hospital. We can see outside, but Spencer can’t touch grass or breathe fresh air. I can do laundry like at home, but the washer and dryer are shared. He can wander around, but he is tethered to an IV pole. He figured out that it is easier to ride his IV stand to our destination. We are in a comfortable space that is meant to be temporary. Every few hours, someone pokes, prods or measures something on my son.

  “Hey, Spence! Guess what?”

  He keeps sipping his chocolate milk through his straw, sparing me a glance just long enough to let me know that he’s interested in the fact that I’m talking to him. Kind of.

  “The doctors say that you can have your wormy house here!”

  He smiles. “My baby wormy house?” He sits up in the hospital bed.

  “Yes. Your baby wormy house. You can have it here.” Spencer’s wide smile lights up his whole face and pours through his blue eyes. It is a euphoric moment to see him so full of joy instead of the indifference caused by pain and discomfort. And it is pure joy, not morphine induced.

  The next day, we have the clear bin with the holes in the white lid. A friend of ours had gathered some of our belongings from the house for our hospital stay, including the wormy bin. I pic
k a cupboard for his wormy house, just like at home.

  Each new person that visits our room is introduced to the wormy bin. The worms are looked at, exposed to light, handled repeatedly, fed, studied, discussed and analyzed. Through all this, the worms try to hide. They curl on themselves, dig in the dirt, and they cower. I envy their freedom to do that . . . to try anyway.

  When they are in the cabinet, they live in their carefully constructed though completely artificial semblance of their home. I know how they feel.

  I look up at the movement at the door. Spencer asks the nurse if she wants to see his wormy bin. She does. She examines all the specimens in the room.

  Nothing about this experience is normal. Having the worm bin in our hospital room helps Spencer focus on caring for something outside of himself. It helps him think of life, joy, love. It is a piece of the outdoors we can’t otherwise touch. And this kindness granted us, ironically, sums up how I feel here. I can empathize with those squirmy little creatures in their tank. Now I know how it feels to have my life under observation, being examined . . . just trying to make it through the day.

  The Wormy Bin at the Hospital

  RED-WAT-SHOD

  Jason V Brock

  Jason V Brock is an award-winning writer, editor, filmmaker, composer, and artist, and has been published in Butcher Knives & Body Counts, Simulacrum and Other Possible Realities, Fungi, Weird Fiction Review, Fangoria, S. T. Joshi's Black Wings series, and many others. He was Art Director/Managing Editor for Dark Discoveries magazine for more than four years, and has a biannual pro digest called [NameL3ss], which can be found on Twitter: @NamelessMag, and on the Interwebs at www.NamelessMag.com. He and his wife, Sunni, also run Cycatrix Press.

  As a filmmaker, his work includes the documentaries Charles Beaumont: The Life of Twilight Zone’s Magic Man, The AckerMonster Chronicles!, and Image, Reflection, Shadow: Artists of the Fantastic. He is the primary composer and instrumentalist/singer for his band, ChiaroscurO. Brock loves his wife, their family of reptiles/amphibians, travel, and vegan/vegetarianism.

  He is active on social sites such as Facebook and Twitter (@JaSunni_JasonVB), and their personal website/blog, www.JaSunni.com.

  “What do you see?”

  “Well . . . she’s walking toward me . . . slightly out of focus, with these visual trails, like bad video . . . she’s—gliding, in slow motion; sort of drifting . . . back and forth—like she’s hovering off the ground . . . ”

  “Is she?”

  “I don’t know; I’m tied to the bed. I can hardly see anything—feels like I’m strapped down at the forehead, too; My eyes are straining in the dark—”

  “What else is happening?”

  “She—she moves very—erratically—I intuit more than see how she moves, if that makes any sense . . . it’s like a video tape on fast forward: darting left, then right, then behind my head, all crackly . . . it’s like she’s in more than one place at a time—The room we’re in is long and narrow . . . like an MRI tube almost, and there are—how would I describe it? Kind of—flashes: very intense red and green cutting through the gloom, like strobes or something . . . ”

  “What’s she wearing?”

  “Hmmm . . . She’s in like a—a long gauzy cloak thing with a hood, but her body underneath is naked; she’s voluptuous: curvy hips; tiny waist; big, bouncy breasts; flat stomach; her pubic hair is neatly trimmed . . . where her skin appears, though, it’s raw and . . . fluoresces like under a blacklight . . . And she’s—she’s torn up . . . bones pushing through the pulp.”

  “Is there more?”

  “Yeah: her body emits this sickly yellow aura; her face is fuzzy, indistinct, but her eyes—her eyes are quick and black, like a shark’s . . . ”

  “What happens then?”

  “Except for the weird jumpiness, her other movements are slow, ponderous . . . I can feel the blood rise in my face—my heart’s pounding so hard: I’m just hoping it won’t beat a hole through me . . . then, there’s this—this whooshing in my ears, right when the temperature drops—”

  “Does the woman ever speak?”

  “No, never. There’s no other sound; in fact it’s utterly quiet, like a vacuum, except for the wooshing . . . I try to scream, to cry out, but my mouth won’t open; it feels like I’m paralyzed . . . I can’t even blink, I just move my eyes around . . . ”

  “Is she alone?”

  “Yes: at first. After a while she’s at the foot of the bed, or whatever I’m strapped onto. Slowly she crawls up my body—still jerky, out of focus . . . Then the whole room starts rotating, and I start feeling sick . . . the strobes are synced to my heartbeat—after a while, in the distance, there’s a another sound—an intense pounding noise . . . ”

  “What is it?”

  “I—I don’t know . . . As I’m trying to figure it out, she’s suddenly kneeling on my chest, her breath dirty, like decay . . . That’s when . . . That’s when he appears at the far end of the tube we’re in . . . ”

  “‘He’ who?”

  “You know: the guy I sold the lighter to.”

  “The one that you’re upset about?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah . . . The guy I’m upset about.”

  “Go on, tell me the rest.”

  “But I’ve already—”

  “Tell me again.”

  “He just—just appears—I don’t know how; maybe he walked in or ‘materialized’ or whatever. She’s on my chest—it’s hard to breathe—and her face is like three inches from mine; she’s still out of focus looking . . . the room’s still spinning—and . . . and . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “And I’m scared! I can’t move, remember? I’m tied down, and that—pounding is getting louder and louder. The guy keeps walking toward us, too . . . He has the weirdest look on his face, like he’s smiling and at peace; resolute . . . ”

  “Keep going: that’s not all . . . ”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I’m not doing anything—you said you wanted to do this for the record—”

  “I know . . . I know I did . . . it’s just—tough; very tough . . . So, anyway, he walks up to us, and he says: ‘I need a book of matches, please’. So . . . so I tell him that I only have lighters; he buys one. I can’t remember how I communicated this, as I still couldn’t speak . . . I was still strapped down, so I don’t know how I got this lighter to him; I can’t remember any kind of transaction or anything. It was just like a mental conversation . . . ”

  “And then?”

  “And then, he thanks me, and slowly walks away.”

  “No . . . no, you left something out—”

  “Please don’t make me say it . . . I’m feeling sick—”

  “Say it! I have to hear you say it for the record. You started it anyway; you think I’m enjoying this?”

  “Okay! Okay, so I sold him the lighter . . . I—I didn’t notice that he had a gas can he was carrying . . . as he’s walking out of the room, he pours the gasoline all over himself; just dumps it onto his head. It makes him gag; he yelps when it hits his eyes . . . he’s gasping and sputtering—then he lights the lighter . . . ”

  “What happened then?”

  “He—he still had that strange flat half-smile, just before he goes up. . . . The fumes ignite and he’s instantly engulfed in this intense fireball . . . All the while she’s still sitting on my chest. The gasoline smell is overwhelming. Disgusting. My heart is just flying, then I smell this—this other, sweet kind of smell . . . it’s—it’s him . . . ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s—it’s his skin burning. If—if you’ve ever smelled burning human flesh, you never forget it . . . It’s like scorched sugar and tar mixed together. And the sound . . . it pops . . . like popcorn or water across a griddle. I-I see him just out of the corner of my eye: he’s melting—sort of in slow motion, like he’s in outer space or something. I see the flames wrap around him . . . little fiery tongues licking across his face and c
lothes. His hair is disintegrating, like he has a nimbus made of cinders; his fat is frying, bubbling. I can feel the burn of the heat on my skin . . . ”

  “What is she doing during all of this?”

  “She’s just staring at me, her face orange with the fire’s illumination. My eyes are drying out, and her breath is foul; the heat, the oily smoke, his stench, the sound of his skin searing is . . . breathtaking . . . You know, he never once screamed or lost that eerie expression: the grin, the million-mile stare . . . ”

  “Then?”

  “Finally, his skull just appeared under his blackened face—the ashes of his flesh drifted away on the breeze from his personal inferno . . . ”

  “What else?”

  “Well . . . As he is crumbling to a heap on the floor, she leans down to my ear and says something . . . I can’t quite figure it out—”

  “You can’t hear her?”

  “No—I hear her, just barely, but I hear her . . . No, it’s like she’s speaking some foreign language. The room is still spinning: it gets faster. My breath is shallow: I’m trying not to breathe—him—into my lungs . . . the smells, the noise . . . the strobes are making my head ache; all the time there’s the intense flicker still coming from his immolation . . . From his cremated remains . . . ”

  “Go on: you’re almost finished . . . ”

  “She—she whispers in my ear again, thrusting her tongue in there. My heart is still pounding, pounding; then it suddenly gets dark—pitch black. My heart slows . . . slower . . . slower . . . finally the universe disappears . . . I am in oblivione . . . ”

  GET THE CELL OUTTA HERE

  Marian Brooks

  Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, One Million Stories, The Linnet's Wings, Barefoot Review and others. She is a cancer survivor, having been diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer in 2007. Right now NED (no evidence of disease).