A blade this sharp opens flesh like a sigh. A release of tension. It passes through flesh with a whisper.
If your subject is still living, they might not even feel the cut. Or it will feel like a paper cut. An itch. One can be cut to the bone and not even know it. Of course, if you're cutting dead flesh, delicacy is an afterthought, but the blade must still be sharp.
Clean cuts, clean mind. Hear the words. Incision. Scalpel. Suture.
Feel the numb in your throat as one last chunk of Adderal turns to goo in your nose and slithers down your throat. You aren't wearing white.
You ARE wearing gloves.
This was pre-ordained. It was already written.
All that was necessary was the coda.
Holy crap. This is insidious. I could feel myself holding the knife. Great stuff.
ReplyDeleteSomething nagged at the back of Anya’s mind. Like something she was forgetting. She pulled her date book out of her backpack as her laundry spun around in the dryer. There was nothing. Nothing for that day except the chores she’d already checked off her list: pay the rent, water the plants, go to the laundromat. She knew looking backward was a bad idea but she did it anyway – the previous month, the days marked with doctor’s appointments, chemo, prescriptions to pick up.
ReplyDeleteThe pharmacies were still texting her but it felt too final to tell them to stop. Each bing frizzed her brain and something was wrong with her phone settings and even though she’d turned off notifications they still bleeped at her and one time she’d nearly thrown the device across the room.
Prior to her mother’s death, her life had felt divided into the before and the after. Before the diagnosis and after. Now there was none of that. The moments, the days, the weeks filled up with appointments and doing and going and fetching. The moments in between were all about distraction: watching movies together, filling up the time. Watching her mother sleep. Watching the shadows grow under her eyes. Watching anything that was streaming because it kept her mind occupied.
And now, the before and after were different. Before was life with her mother. After was…nothing. Empty days now filled with manufactured industry to keep her mind from spiraling. Empty pages in her planner…
“Hey, Annie, whazzat?” a voice said.
It was Junior, the guy who hung around the laundromat, looking for work. Always said he’d keep watch on your wash for a few bucks if you had somewhere else to be. He was harmless. Mostly. His teeth were too big for his mouth, he’d said, so there were some things he couldn’t pronounce. Like her name. So he always called her Annie. She’d tried coaching him a few times, but it didn’t help. She didn’t even think the thing about his teeth was true because his mouth looked pretty much like everyone else’s. And her name wasn’t even that complicated. Not like so many of the people who lived in South Florida. But she’d given up on trying because it was too much work. Let him call her whatever.
“Planner,” Anya said.
“Oh. Thought it was like your diary or something.”
Anya shook her head. “For appointments and stuff.”
“My grandma used to have one of those.”
Anya shrugged. “Guess I’m analog that way.”
“You are! You are Annie that way. Ha. Grandma Annie.”
“Leave me alone, Junior.”
“It’s just funny,” he said. A car pulled up to the curb. “Aw, shit.”
It was the owner. He walked in looking pissed.
“He’s helping me,” Anya said to the middle-aged man with a receding headline and a proceeding beer gut.
“That right?”
“Yeah, um.” She widened her eyes, tried to look sad, which lately wasn’t hard because it was always a millimeter below her surface. “My mom died? And it’s been real hard? And he’s just helping me out?”
The man’s face looked like he was making up his mind. About all of it. He softened. Then glared again, stabbing a finger at Junior. “You taking money from her to do this?”
Junior put his hands up. “No! Man, no, I’d never do that. You heard her. Her mom died. I’m just helping.”
“Yeah, okay. Just stay out of trouble.”
Then he disappeared into the side office.
(the rest of it that didn't fit)
Delete“Hey, thanks, Annie. Wait. Your mom actually died?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait. You mean that pretty blond lady used to come in here with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Man. She was hot. I mean. For a mom. That’s a shame.”
“Junior! I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Shit. That sucks. Hey, I mean. You got stuff to do, I don’t mind watching your laundry. I mean, for real. No charge.”
“Thanks.”
The dryer stopped. He looked at her. He looked at the dryer. He looked at her. “I got this,” Anya said.
“I’m good at folding. I saw these videos, I can—”
“I got this.”
He backed off, palms raised. “All right, all right.” He put his hands down.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m sorry.” Then he stood there, looking awkward and also sad, and she felt for him, and maybe he did want to do something nice for someone and not just fondle her underpants.
“Okay. You can do the t-shirts.”