The Gargoyle

by Andrew Davidson

  When Dwayne and Debi died, I lost my only remaining relatives—from my mother’s side, anyway; my father’s side was nothing more than a question mark. I was placed in a group home called Second Chance House, which only made me wonder when I had had my first chance. It was while in Second Chance that I obtained most of my government-sponsored instruction. I went to high school classes fairly regularly, even though I found them boring, and acquired the basics in math and the sciences. All my hours in the library were not wasted. Long before anyone tried to teach me anything, I had already taught myself how to learn.

  With the help of the other kids at Second Chance, I soon discovered a variety of drugs with which to experiment. Although disgusted by crystal meth, I was intrigued by marijuana and hashish. In fact, I’d received early encouragement towards these substances from my aunt and uncle who, not realizing that people could actually survive without chemical assistance, were trying to protect me from anything harder.

  I also discovered a third hobby to go with libraries and narcotics: the miracle of making the sheets sing. It began by trading exploratory blowjobs with my new best friend, Eddie. This is the sort of thing that teenage boys do: they dare the other to kiss it and then call him a fag when he does. The next night, the same thing. I liked sex but homosexuality was not my flavor, so I soon progressed to some of the young female occupants—in particular, one girl named Chastity who was blissfully unaware of her name’s meaning. She was, in fact, unaware of a great many things. The first time that Chastity heard the phrase “oral sex” she thought it somehow involved the ear. Aural sex, one supposes.

  By seventeen, I’d moved on to indulging my sexual curiosity with one of the counselors. Being a ward of the government was not without its advantages. Sarah was a troubled adult if ever there was one: an alcoholic in her mid-thirties with a cheating husband and an early midlife crisis. I provided her with consolation and excitement, and she provided me with sex. It did not hurt that my handsomeness, which hitherto had been little more than chubby-faced cuteness, had bloomed. My cheeks had acquired striking angles, my hair had curled pleasantly, and my body had made the transition to graceful muscularity.

  When it came time for my discharge at eighteen, I had two talents. One was smoking drugs, the other was fucking my counselor, and I needed to convert one of these abilities into food and shelter. It did not seem that consuming drugs would be a well-paid occupation, but it was easy to find some work posing nude for $50, as the world is not short of middle-aged men who will pay boys to stand naked in their living rooms. I had no moral judgment about it; I was too busy calculating how many hamburgers fifty bucks could buy. From there it was a short jump to $150 for photos involving sexual activity and—since you’re already posing for stills, anyway—it makes a lot of sense to double or triple your income by acting in videos. Besides, who doesn’t want to be a movie star? Each shoot took, at most, a couple of days; more often, simply a few hours. That’s good money for an eighteen-year-old with no skills and, as simple as that, my career in pornography had started.

  II.

  Light spread across the insides of my eyelids and I awoke to the snake slowly swimming up my spinal cord, swallowing it with her disjointed jaw. There was the flick flick flick of her tongue as she hissed, I AM COMING AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. The voice was feminine—this is how I knew it was a she—and her tongue tickled each vertebra as she searched her way towards the top of my spine. When she reached it, she licked at the undersocket of my skull, and then twisted a few times to let me know that she’d nestled in. Her scales chafed my internal organs and my liver was bruised by her casually wandering tail.

  I was lying upon an air flotation bed that reduced friction and facilitated healing; my bandages lightly fluttered in the upward draft. On each side of the bed was a railing, painted white like bleached bones, so that I could not fall, or force myself, out. I soon named this bed the skeleton’s belly and I lay in the wind that rushed through its rib cage, while its very bones prevented me from wandering off to find a new graveyard.

  I was off the ventilator but there were still enough tubes sticking out of me that I looked like a pincushion doll. The tubes twisted in circles around, around, around, and I thought of Minos presiding at the entrance to Hell, directing sinners to their final destinations by curling his tail around their bodies. For every coil of the tail, that’s one ring deeper into Hell. So I counted my lovely tubes, in simple curiosity: how deep was the grim sorter of the dark and the foul going to send me?

  The nurse seemed happy to find me awake. “Dr. Edwards modified your drugs to bring you out of your coma. I’ll get her now.”

  I tried to speak, but it felt as though someone had inserted a Coke bottle in my throat and stomped; I had crushed glass where my vocal cords had been. The nurse shushed me and answered the questions that she knew I’d be asking if I were able. I was in a hospital, a burn unit, she said. There had been an accident. I was very lucky. The doctors had worked hard. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I was finally able to rasp, “How—long?”

  “Almost two months.” She granted me a pity smile and turned on her heel to get the doctor.

  I examined the skeleton’s ribs. There were a few places where the shiny white paint had been peeled back by restless fingers. These patches had been painted over, of course, but the minor excavations were still visible. Down through the layers of paint, my thoughts wandered. How often do they paint these beds? For every patient? For every six, every dozen? How many before me have lain here?

  I wanted to cry but my tear ducts had been burned shut.

  There was not much to do but drift in and out of consciousness. The morphine dripped and the snake inhabited each inch of my spine, continuing to flick at the base of my skull with her wicked tongue. Lick and kiss, drip drip drip dropped the drugs, hiss hiss hiss spoke the snake. The sibilant sermons of the snake as she discoursed upon the disposition of my sinner’s soul seemed ceaseless. There was clack and clatter of footfalls in the hall, a thousand people coming to pay their respects to the dying. Rooms reverberated with the drone of soap operas. Anxious families whispered about worst-case scenarios.

  I couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of my situation and wondered about things like when I might be able to get back to my film work, or how much this little trip to the hospital would cost me. I hadn’t yet grasped that I might never return to work, and that this trip would cost me everything. It was only over the following weeks, as the doctors explained the grisly particulars of what had happened to my body, and what would continue to happen, that I came to understand.

  My body’s swelling had decreased and my head had shrunk to almost human proportions. My face felt vile under the fingertips of my unburned hand. My legs were raised and taped to supports, and I was swaddled in thick dressings that restricted movement so that I would not tear at my grafts. I looked at my wrecked right leg and saw an amazing set of pins stabbing into my flesh. Burn victims cannot have casts made of fiberglass—too irritating by far—so mechanical spiders were growing out of me.

  There were three primary nurses in the burn ward: Connie, Maddy, and Beth. They provided not only physical ministrations but also keep-your-chin-up speeches, telling me that they believed in me, so I had to believe in myself too. I’m sure that Connie believed the rubbish that was exiting her mouth, but I sensed that Maddy and Beth were closer to grocery clerks parroting “Have a nice day.” Each worked an eight-hour shift; altogether they made a day.

  Beth worked the afternoons and was responsible for my daily massage, pulling gently on my joints and rubbing my muscles. Even these modest manipulations brought intense pain, all the way through the morphine. “If we don’t do this, the skin will tighten and you won’t be able to move your joints at all. We’ve been doing this all through your coma.” Her explanation did not make it hurt any less. “Contracture is a huge problem. If you could see your remaining toes, you’d see the splints on them. Can you push against my hand?�
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  I tried to push but couldn’t tell if I succeeded or not; the sensation—actually, the lack of it—was simply too confusing. I could no longer tell where my body ended.

  Dr. Nan Edwards, my main physician and the head of the burn ward, explained that she had been operating regularly during my coma, cutting off damaged skin and wrapping me in various replacements. In addition to homografts (the skin from human cadavers) I’d had autografts, skin from undamaged areas of my body, and porcine heterografts, skin from pigs. One cannot help but wonder whether Jews or Muslims would receive the same treatment.

  “It was really touch-and-go because your lungs were so badly injured. We had to keep raising the level of oxygen in your respirator, which is never a good sign,” Dr. Edwards said. “But you pulled through. You must have something pretty good ahead.”

  What an idiot. I hadn’t fought for my life, I hadn’t realized that I was in a coma, and I certainly hadn’t struggled to come out of it. Never once in my time in the blackness had it registered that I needed to return to the world.

  Dr. Edwards said, “If not for the advances in burn treatment made during the Vietnam War…” Her voice trailed off, as if it were better for me to fill in the blanks and realize what a lucky age I was living in.

  How I wished that my voice worked. I would have told her that I wished this had happened in the fourteenth century, when there would have been no hope for me.

  I began my career as a porno actor specializing in heterosexual sex with multiple female partners in a short period of time, without ever losing my erection. But please don’t think of me as one-dimensional; as an artist, I was always looking for a new challenge. With conscientious practice, I increased my portfolio to include cunnilingus, anilingus, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes. Homosexuality was not for me, although I always rather admired the men who could drill both ways. I wasn’t particularly interested in S&M, even though I did make some films with light bondage motifs. I was not disposed towards any film promoting pedophiliac leanings. Ghastly stuff, although I must admit that Humbert Humbert makes me giggle. Scatology was strictly out, as nowhere in my psyche do I harbor the desire to shit on someone and even less do I have the inclination to be shat upon. And if I am a snob for not participating in films that involve sex with animals, then so be it: I am a snob.

  I lay in my bed, intensely aware of the sensation of breathing. Compared with how I breathed before the accident, it was so…What is the best word? “Labored” is not quite right. “Oppressed” is better and is as close as I can come. My oppressed breathing was due in part to my damaged face, in part to the tubes twisting down my throat, and in part to my mask of bandages. Sometimes I imagined that the air was afraid to enter my body.

  I peeked under my body bandages, curious to see what was left of me. The birth scar that had spent its entire life above my heart was no longer lonely. In fact, I could hardly even find it anymore, so snugly was it nestled in the gnarled mess of my chest. Each day a procession of nurses, doctors, and therapists waltzed into my room to ply me with their ointments and salves, massaging the Pompeian red landslide of my skin. “Passive stretching,” they would tell me, “is extremely important.” Passive stretching, I would think, hurts like hell.

  I buzzered the nurses relentlessly, begging for extra morphine to satiate the snake, only to be told that it was not yet time. I demanded, pleaded, bargained, and cried; they insisted that they—fuck them—had my best interests at heart. Too much medication would prevent my internal organs from working properly. Too much medication would make me dependent. Too much medication would, somehow, make things worse.

  A snake lived inside me. I was enclosed in a skeleton’s rib cage. The Vietnam War, apparently, had existed for my benefit. My fingers and toes had been lopped off, and I had recently learned that while doctors might be able to perform a phalloplasty, to build a new penis out of tissue taken from my arm or leg, I’d never be able to achieve an erection again.

  In what way, I wondered, could more morphine possibly make things worse?

  When the nurses got tired of my pleas for more dope, they told me they were sending in a psychiatrist. The blue gown he wore over his clothing, for the protection of the burn patients, did not quite fit properly and I could hear his corduroys rubbing at the thighs as he walked. He had a balding dome, wore an unkempt goatee in an unsuccessful effort to distract from his double chin, and sported the puffy cheeks of a man whose entire diet came from vending machines. His animal equivalent would have been a chipmunk with a glandular problem, and he extended his paw like he was my new best friend. “I’m Gregor Hnatiuk.”

  “No thanks.”

  Gregor smiled widely. “Not even going to give me a chance?”

  I told him to write down whatever he wanted on the evaluation form and we could pretend that we’d made an effort. Normally, I would have had some fun with him—told him that I’d breast-fed too long and missed my mommy, or that aliens had abducted me—but my throat couldn’t handle the strain of speaking so many words in a row. Still, I got the point across that I had little interest in whatever treatment he thought he could provide.

  Gregor sat down and settled his clipboard like a schoolboy trying to hide an erection. He assured me that he only wanted to help, then actually used his fingers to air-quote the fact that he was not there to “get inside” my head. When he was a child, the neighborhood bullies must have beaten him incessantly.

  I did manage to get a few final words out: “More painkillers.” He said he couldn’t give me them, so I told him to go away. He told me that I didn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to, but he would share some methods for creative visualization to cope with the pain. I took his suggestion to heart and creatively visualized that he’d left the room.

  “Close your eyes and think about a place you want to go,” he said. “This place can be a memory, or a destination that you want to visit in the future. Any place that makes you happy.”

  Sweet Jesus.

  Dr. Edwards had warned me that the first time I was conscious during a débridement session would be painful beyond the ability of the morphine to alleviate, even with an increased dosage. But all I heard was “increased dosage,” and it brought a smile to my face, although no one could see it under the bandages.

  The extra dope started to take effect shortly before I was to be moved, and I was floating on a beautiful high when I heard Dr. Edwards’ clipped footsteps, from sensible shoes, coming at me from down the hall before she arrived.

  Dr. Edwards was, in every way, average looking. Neither pretty nor ugly, she could fix her face to look adequately pleasing but she rarely bothered. Her hair could have had more body if she’d brushed it out each morning, but she usually just pulled it back, perhaps out of practical concerns, as it is hardly advisable for loose strands to fall into burn wounds. She was slightly overweight and if one were to make a guess, it would be a good bet that at some point she’d simply grown tired of counting calories. She looked as if she had grown into her commonness and accepted it; or perhaps she’d decided that, since she was working among burn survivors, too much attention to her appearance might even be an insult.

  Dr. Edwards gestured to the orderly she’d brought with her, a ruddy chunk of a man whose muscles flexed when he reached out for me. Together, they transferred me from my bed to a stretcher. I squealed like a stuck pig, learning in a moment just how much my body had grown to accept its stillness.

  The burn unit is often the most distant wing of a hospital, because burn victims are so susceptible to infection that they must be kept away from other patients. More important, perhaps, is that the placement minimizes the chance of visitors stumbling across a Kentucky Fried Human. The débridement room, I could not help but notice, was in the farthest room of this farthest wing. By the time my session was finished, I realized this was so the other burn patients couldn’t hear the screams.

  The orderly laid me out on a slanted steel table where warm water, with medical ag
ents added to balance my body chemistry, flowed across the slick surface. Dr. Edwards removed my bandages to expose the bloody pulp of my body. They echoed with flat thuds as she dropped them into a metal bucket. As she washed me, there was disgust in the down-turned edges of her mouth and unhappiness in her fingertips. The water flowing over me swirled pink. Then dark pink, light red, dark red. The murky water eddied around the little chunks of my flesh that looked like fish entrails on a cutting board.

  All this was but a prelude to the main event.

  Débridement is the ripping apart of a person, the cutting away of as much as can possibly be endured. Technically, it is removal of dead or contaminated tissue from a wound so that healthy skin may grow in its place. The word itself comes intact from the French noun débridement, which literally means “unbridling.” The etymology is easy to construct: the removal of contaminated tissue from the body—the removal of constricting matter—evokes the image of taking the bridle off a horse, as the bridle itself is a constriction. The débrided person shall be set free of the contaminant, as it were.

  So much of my skin was damaged that removing the putrefying tissue meant more or less scrubbing away everything. My blood squirted up onto Dr. Edwards, leaving streams of red across her gowned chest, as she used a razorlike apparatus to take the dermis off my body, not unlike the way a vegetable peeler removes the skin from food.

  Dr. Edwards made long—No, that’s too formal. Our situation made us more intimate than the cruelest of lovers, so why not use her given name? Nan made long swooping passes over my back. I could hear the blade as it slid along my body, disengaging the skin. The only way she’d know that she’d reached the good tissue was to actually slice into it. If I screamed in pain, she had burrowed deeply enough to find functioning nerve endings. As Blake wrote in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: “You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.”