Okay.
He refreshes himself with the paper.
Now let's go with another gauze piece.
He shifts his eyes to the side of the magnifying glass before observing the gauze. Slight grumbles from the pus reassure him that this piece is not the 'you' piece. Knowing that, he turns it blood-side-up and puts it under the glass.
"Suffer."
His neck twitches. As with the other words, 'suffer' keeps repeating as long as his eyes remain focused on the blood. He cannot discern any other word, despite wanting it to be more innocent and cohesive, like 'soon.' You will need more information suffer?
He switches this gauze for the third one, checking again to make sure it wasn't the loudest piece.
"Pain."
I guess packing gauze is always forceful.
He tries chuckling at the thought but finds that the chuckles sound more like whimpers. His immediate reaction is to ignore 'need more information' and form 'You will suffer pain.' As that thought lingers, it gels into thoughts about the time his arm was sliced open. That hardens to thoughts about car accidents, burning buildings, wars, and holocausts. His eyes glue to his collection, and for the first time since he began collecting, he doesn't find comfort in them.
No matter how many bandages I keep around, I'll always be a pussy.
Bearing that in mind, he lays another Band-Aid under the glass. It says, "Read." He writes the word down and inserts another one that says, "Wraps." Another says "At." A patch says "To/Too/Two," and a final Band-Aid says "Find."
Why do the Band-Aids and patches have weaker words to say? They all have blood on them, so what makes them different?
He goes through the last two patches: "In" and "The."
After writing all of these words down, James gawks at his jumble of words: "You will need more information suffer pain read wraps at to/too/two find in the."
Is this even meant to give me any kind of message? Is this just a tangle of words that I'm imagining?
He starts writing down the combinations he hasn't tried:
'You need information in pain.'
'You need to read more information.'
'You will suffer in the pain.'
'You will find need at the pain.'
'You will need to read more pain.'
'You will find information in the wraps.'
'Information will suffer.'
'You need to read the wraps.'
From those, he scratches out several until he is left with, 'You will suffer in the pain,' 'You will need to read more pain,' and 'You will find information in the wraps.'
It's still saying that I need more of something, I guess, but it keeps saying something about how something is going to hurt me, too. Not sure if I should drop words or not. And does everything need to start at 'You will?' Is it going to tell me something about the future or is it commanding me to do something?
Flipping to another page in his notebook, he writes, 'You will find information in the wraps' and 'You will need to read more pain.' Outside of 'You' and 'Will,' he checks each of those words off as they appear in his word bank, leaving two words unused. He puts 'You will' before those unused words, and ends up with two sentences and something incomplete:
'You will need to read more pain.'
'You will find information in the wraps.'
'You will suffer at'
The incomplete third statement curdles his stomach as he seeks the answer.
More pain... like how the packing gauze was more forceful than the Band-Aids and patches? It works with the wraps.
A jolt zips through his body, and he turns to the old wraps drooping over the edge of the chest. He grabs it with quaking hands and drags the length under the glass, stretching it across until he magnifies the old and crusted material from before. But as he looks into each crevice and each dry splotch, all he hears are muffled and wheezy vocalizations. Even magnified, he finds no words in long-dead blood. Frustrated sweat breaks out on his forehead, and fearful paralysis sticks him to his seat as the clock drifts into the next day.
Need to complete it. Need to avoid it.
The couch squeaks as he pushes up, and the plastic bags crinkle as he loads them back into the chest, but he makes no effort to quiet them. Earl is tucked away, and no amount of shaking and shouting over an incomplete threat will wake him. James stuffs the magnifying glass into his backpack, trudges back to his bed, and struggles to sleep.
Fuck. Now I can't stop.
* * *
Every joint in James' arms and legs protests as he wakens to his alarm clock. Throughout showering, clothing, eating, and walking to class, he pictures 'You will suffer at.' His eyes ring from the loudness of the sunlight, even behind his sunglasses, but he keeps them open as they follow cars, glance towards construction crews, and shift among other pedestrians. His heart and lungs tighten as he gets close to any of these, and he trots away from each one as soon as possible.
In class, 'You will suffer at' smothers the lecture. James gives more time to watching the clock than to writing notes. When he doesn't watch the clock, he nods off into sleep, only for dreams of ripping flesh to wake him up. By the end of class, a headache prickles his brain.
He nods asleep again outside of a restaurant as he waits for Earl to pick him up for work. The restaurant's cheesy and saucy odors sweeten his unconsciousness against exhaustion and frustration. But as cheese and sauce drift in, they are contaminated by human fat and gore. The restaurant merges with the hospital. James shivers awake when Earl taps him on the shoulder.
* * *
James dumps the scummy tissues from a wastebasket into a bio-medical container. He finds bandages inside but nothing new. Among simple covers and pads, the low-pain values of blood spots whisper to him as he ignores them. He lingers a little longer to try to find wrappings or discarded dressings from trauma patients. Luckless, he lets the lid fall and leaves to return the basket.
On his way, he steps out of the path of a nursing team wheeling a gurney through the hall. His eyes follow the gas tank and the hangar with a nutrient bag to a patient whose head is obscured by yellow-stained wrappings. After his eyes, his body starts to follow the gurney. The gurney and nurses soon disappear behind the door to the burn unit, but James reads the tag on the gurney, Room 473. Before they vanish, he memorizes the number.
"Hey, Jim," a nurse says from behind him, "Ms. Valenzuela needs that basket back."
Panic forces James to turn back around. He chokes his breathing into line as he says, "Right. Sorry, Melissa."
The glance of her eyes from his face to the burn unit grows an embarrassed lump in his stomach, swollen by the querying tones he hears in the colors of her eyes. He nods before taking off, beating himself with Earl's words:
'I'm pretty sure they can fire you for that shit.'
The more he beats himself with those words, the redder his face blushes.
As he rushes back to return the basket, he maps the routes between there and his backpack, between the backpack and Room 473. He connects the burn victim's wraps to the bandage message, but the connection feels loose.
This might not be it, but it's the first shot I have.
His footsteps lengthen to strides, as he dodges around visitors, staff, and patients. Some of them turn to watch, and he avoids their eyes. His eyelids scrunch down to slits as he tries limiting the visual noise, but he splits them open again and again as obstacles force his acknowledgement. He opens the door to Ms. Valenzuela's room, drops the basket inside, then twists back around.
"Are you okay, Jim?" a passing doctor asks.
"Fine, Dr. Rihannon."
"Is there some kind of waste emergency going on that I'm not aware of?" Dr. Rihannon's question fades in the distance as James keeps striding past.
James takes a deep breath on the way to the employee lounge.
A patient in a wheelchair passes him by, his calf covered in wraps discolored red and brown.
"Excuse me, son," says the old man,
"could you please refer me to the director's office? I need to make a complaint."
James's throat clenches as he stops to answer.
What if he's the one I'm looking for?
He shoves the thought to the side as he says "Fifth floor, fourth room on the right."
There's no way he would have let me look at his leg, not the way he sounded.
The rest of the way to the employee lounge darkens with thoughts towards the patient in Room 473.
The only way I can get it from him is if he's unconscious, if I want to keep my job.
James stuffs the magnifying glass in his pocket and leaves. His resolve weakens as he presses the call button to the burn unit.
"Where can I find Room 473? I heard the waste baskets need some emptying," he asks the attendant.
"You're welcome to get rid of anything in there. Just get a mask, cap, and gloves from the counter first."
While strapping the mask on and slipping his hands into the gloves, he strides to the door of Room 473. As he greases his gloves with sanitizer from the wall-mounted pump, he peers through the glass. Wrapping his hand around the door handle, he pushes in and eases it shut.
His eyes lock on the patient as he sneaks forward. The sound of the patient's breathing calms him despite carrying smells of fresh leakage from the wounds on his face. James sees a few anguished voices, scattered without magnification, among the wraps. Then, with his eyes closed, he slides his sunglasses off and exchanges them for the magnifying glass. Opening his eyes again, a low cacophony rattles his sight.
I need to be quick.
Random noises blare from every lit surface.
I haven't been this exposed since I was a kid.
He leans down with the magnifying glass and searches the bloodiest strips.
"Freed," one says.
"However," says another.
"Be."
Swallowing, he starts shifting the glass all over the face.
"Be freed however. However be freed."
Blood vessels start breaking in James' eyes from irritation and frustration.
You're shitting me!
"However be freed. However be freed. However be freed."
The chain of "However be freed" ends as he finds a loose strip near the patient's shaved hair.
I'll tell them that it came undone. I just need to know...
James' hand hovers over the loose strip, followed by the magnifying glass. His fingertips grip the end. He draws a deep breath. He pulls.
"NOON!"
James' screams rip louder than the howl of the wound, louder than the howl of the newly-woken patient.
James' eyes gush hot and viscous as he holds them. As he blindly stumbles around, the sickness deepens, worsened by the radiating suffering of the patient. James trips backward over a cord, and his head smashes into the corner of a table. His eyes open once more, and his limbs and digits spasm as the last thing he sees tears the last of the screams from his body.
* * *
All is silent. James feels morphine-dulled pains in different bones, different patches of skin, and different muscles. Despite feeling injuries all over, he only feels bandages on his head.
Is all of it real?
Pain runs strongest from his eyes, which feel moist rather than sticky like his other wounds.
Earl's voice breaks through the silence. "Can he talk?"
James gurgles trying to answer.
"Probably won't speak for a few days." A nurse says. "Dr. Rihannon says his speech will be better than his vision, though. Because his eyes have continued to bleed, he could come out of this blind."
The thing he saw blurs again in James' thoughts.
I don't know if the bandages were a warning or a threat.
He hangs on the latter, as all company leaves the room. He fears that the thing will return while he lies blind and injured.
The patches feel snug against his eyes, and the quiet of the darkness forms a calm void. The wounds, real or imagined, would soon pass into scars. A peaceful smile parts James' lips as he joins the words of the wraps with, "You will."
The Highest and the Sweetest by S.P. Miskowski
I started out as one of the babysitters on the day shift. I'm still a babysitter, but I have another career now, too. I'll tell you about my new job in a minute.
I guess I applied about ten times before I got an interview. There's a long line of women that want to do what I'm doing. Women come from all over the country to apply. A few men apply, too, but Quartz only hires women. We've got the natural instinct.
"I feel like this is the work I was born to do."
That's what I told Quartz during the interview. And in a way it's true. I was born to do what I'm doing. You could say it's more of a calling than a job. You could say it's my destiny.
My daddy was sick for a long time before he died. I took care of him night and day. Then when he passed it seemed like all I did was wait for a sign. I kept looking, on every channel. Almost a year passed.
One day when I was packing up some old clothes for the Salvation Army I found a box full of shoes in the back of a closet. One corner of the box had been eaten away. Inside I found a mouse, little brown thing, with six babies. Well, here was a tiny miracle where you would never have expected it.
I cleaned out my sewing basket and then I filled it with some of the clothes I had gathered up for charity. I spent hours finding the warmest spot for the basket, right in the middle of the living room. When everything was just right, I lifted the mouse babies and their mama and put them in their new home.
It must have been a couple of hours later while I was watching "Kate Plus 8" that I heard a sound I'll never forget. Like a squeal, but crazy, with all these scratching noises. That's what I can't get out of my head: the scratching — and chewing.
I jumped up from the couch and pulled back the towel I had draped over my sewing basket. It was the most terrible thing I'd ever seen. That mama mouse had gone insane, somehow, and she was eating those babies! She had killed four already, and the clothes I had used to build her nest were soaked in blood.
I felt like I was choking, like something had hold of my heart and was crushing it. The sight of those tiny naked bodies twitching while their mama, the one who gave them passage into this world, tore their flesh away with her sharp, little teeth! I slammed the remote control down, one time, two times, one last time. Then she stopped moving.
The last two lived another day and a half. I tried every food and every kind of soup. I tried milk and bread. They just lay there, with their hearts beating away and their breathing was fast and shallow. Finally, they died. Their mama didn't give them the love they needed, and they died. It was an awful thing to see, but I learned what I needed to learn.
So the first time I saw Quartz on TV was a revelation and a confirmation, to me. I've prayed all of my life. Every day I've spoken to God and asked what I should do to make my life serve a purpose.
The day I saw Quartz on the TV screen, God reached down and touched me, and I knew why. For the first time, I knew what I was meant to do. I was born to take care of these babies.
The people that write those blogs, those are the monsters. Not Quartz. Not me. Those bloggers are evil. Can you believe a human being with a soul would say the things they're saying? I don't. My daddy taught me: There are some people who don't have a soul, and they'll take yours if you don't watch out. So I watch out. Nobody's going to take my soul.
Quartz is not a bad mom. That's a crazy thing to say. People who write that should be in jail for trashing her character. She is a beautiful and gracious young woman. Those rumors about her having plastic surgery are lies. She's as natural as the day is long. She could be a model if she wanted to, but she put her life on hold to raise these babies. Most people will never do one thing as beautiful as what Quartz has done.
Here's the part I don't understand: How can the government and the social services tell a woman what she can do with her womb? If you can answer me
that, well, okay then. Go ahead.
See? You can't tell Quartz what to do, can you? Not if you're a feminist. And you look like you might be one. If you say she's got the right to do what she wants, then she's got the right to do what she's doing. It cuts both ways, you see, the feminist thing? You can do what you want, and Quartz can do what she wants.
Every one of the babies Quartz is nursing right now is nothing but a gift, a pure gift from Heaven. A baby's soul is the most pure thing you can find in the universe. That's why in certain cults they like to sacrifice the infant, because it's the highest and the sweetest thing. It's a fact of history that some religions have called for strangling the child, or crushing its skull, or even burning the baby alive. There's the proof that children are sacred, right there. Every part of a baby's body is perfect in God's eyes.
The most corrupt thing alive is an evil heart. It's the evil heart in these people that makes them say: "Quartz is a bad mom. Nobody ought to give birth to twelve babies at once, not when she's already got the Octuplets and two sets of Quints."
Or they say: "Who's the father? The fertility clinic?"
Like it's a joke. Let me tell you something, the life of a baby is not a joke. It comes straight to earth from the bosom of God. If you could see Heaven right now, you would see millions and millions of tender, little angels floating in the sky, every one waiting to be born. Every one is waiting for a loving heart to call it to its earthly home. When you deny one of these angels a home in your heart, it's a sin.
Yesterday a man on the radio said: "Why don't they slap that doctor with a lawsuit and put him out of business?"
See? That's hate, right there, nothing but hate. That fertility doctor is serving God's purpose. All he's done is to open a gateway for these babies to come through so that they can serve the Lord.
If you know these things, if you see how it all works, then you're living in the light. If you don't, then I feel sorry for you.
None of those people on TV and the radio shows care what happens to these little angels. They just want to have their way. Well, you know what? They're outnumbered. All the people that send Quartz letters and emails say she's doing something beautiful. Right now we've got several prayer groups that send us a blessing every day.
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