Hospitals?

Hospitals?

Those of us that have terminal diseases or constitutive disorders begin to think of Ambulances as martial law enforcers, making their rounds and claiming their casualties in moments of weakness…arresssssting you, unless you convince them to release you on your own cognition which means meeting their own diabolical standards.

“Guys…yeah, I’m doing alright now…think you could unstrap me…”

“Oh, he thinks he’s okay now…(snort)…how ’bout answering a few questions for your friendly EMT? Alright, let’s start with: what month is it?”

For christ sakes, I have to ask what month it is every time I fill out a form.

“June?”

“June, eh? (Snicker) Alright, what city are you in?”

“I’m in the fucking ground zero blast zone of Saigon, now undo these god damn straps!”

“No…I think we’d better have a doctor look at this one…”

Back to the hospital?

He’s stirring…no, it’s just a twitch. Always the same. Sleeping in the fetal position on a black bed pushed up against the wall. Two monitors stand over him with dripping red latex gloves. Are you through…with the blood enema? We treat the sick here and sometimes the dead. The monitors leave. Another twitch. A trickle of red rolls out of the crack and down his cheek. Slow.

The perfect sodomy. I watch and rub my temples. My head hurts. The blood bead finds the black sheet and disappears. Are you through…with…with the enema? Another twitch. His eyes never open. He never looks peaceful. What is wrong with my chair?

My chair doesn’t make any sound. The plexiglass is silent. I can’t hear my heart or my pulse or my breath. I can only see the bed and the twitching. Are you…with…with the blood…

They come every day. Not for me, but always for him. I am very confused about the silence. Does everyone communicate only with themselves? I have never known anything but the monitors, and the twitch, and the red. Of all this…I…I’m not sure…Are…are you…the…the enema?…

“How’s his head?”

“Intact.”

“Nipples?”

“Erect.”

“Good. We’ve got to work quickly. Caliper.”

“Sir, I think there’s some neural hemorrhaging.”

“Fuck! Disconnect the spine! Damn it, he’s leaking endorphins all over the place. Check the genital.”

“It’s too late sir; the testicle has been compromised.”

“Alright. Let’s get out of here, that thing’ll blow any minute now.”

“Sir.”

Plexiglass nightmare. Flesh and lymph and inch long sperm dribble down. Nurses line up mops, rags, facemasks, and smiles. Cleanup has such beautiful cleavage.

“It’s the kind of disease that makes a man proud to be a soldier.”

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