When I walked into her bedroom, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Her curtains were open and the bright sun bathed the room in a glorious, angelic light. Directly below the window was a single bed covered in magazine clippings and poster board. Her walls were engulfed with these collages of advertisements and beauty. She was not here – and neither were her scissors.
“Hello?” I hollered; surprised at my shaky voice.
Silence.
I stuck my head out the door and looked both ways as if I were crossing a street. All of the doors were closed in an ominous manner. What lied behind them, I couldn’t tell. I stepped into the crushing silence of the hallway and walked past her brother’s room, her parent’s room, and her mother’s work room; she wouldn’t be in any of them. It felt like a scary movie as I walked to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Time slowed to a crawl as I reached for the round, golden doorknob and noisily turned it.
The bathroom’s only window faced the setting sun, which momentarily blinded me. White light filled my eyes while I continued walking and stepped on something that made a metallic sound against the white tile. I knew what made the noise but I looked anyways. Her scissors shined even though they were spotted with a dark liquid. They were lying in a pool of the same liquid and its color clashed against the immaculate tiles. My eyes followed the stream of molasses while my mind screamed for me to run. There was another pool of blood with her beautiful wrist in it. There were multiple scars and scabs up and down her paler than normal arm with a deep gash running up the entire thing. I gazed without emotion as I absorbed all of the images: her bloody hands, her pale skin, her dead eyes, her blood covering the floor, her staring eyes.
She stared into my eyes like she never had before. She saw anything and everything she had never seen before and instantly understood it all. I felt naked. I felt exposed even though she was the one exposing her insides to me. She saw my secrets and I saw her biology—nothing more. We just remained—staring.
A car alarm went off down the street was all it took for me to be pulled back into the moment. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. I fell to my knees and shook her body. There was no sound, no reaction, no response. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! My instincts told me to find her pulse so I grabbed her sticky arms and when I felt what should be her wrist I stopped cold. My fingers weren’t touching her skin…they were wiggling around inside of her wrist. All of the blood I touched was old and dry; no new blood squirted out with the beating of a heart because her heart had long ago stopped.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
What a Shitty Place
Here's something I wrote for a class today.
What a Shitty Place by Maria Schmitt
I didn’t think that I would ever have to take a test I didn’t need to study for.
I walk into the free health clinic and sheepishly look around. The windows are tinted, which doesn’t matter because the blinds are almost completely closed anyways. The small waiting room has too many chairs for anyone to comfortably sit. Not that I am exactly looking forward to sitting on those chairs anyways. I think if I didn’t have a disease, I will now. The magazines are all from more than a year ago and look as if they could fall apart if you looked at them wrong. No one makes eye contact with anyone. No one speaks.
Behind the bulletproof glass at the counter, an impatient Hispanic woman types furiously. Her black hair has been teased and curled and sprayed so much that I couldn’t even imagine what would happen if she was near an open flame. I hope she’s not a smoker. Her tits are pushed up and squished into a tiny shirt that was probably made for a teenager, not a woman her size. I must have been staring at those tits for too long because she says, “Are you here for the scenery or do you need something?” Her eyes drill deeper into mine with every word.
“Oh, uh…sorry. I was, uh, looking at your nametag.” I have no idea if she’s even wearing one and I’m too afraid to look now. “I, uh, need to get some blood work done.”
“For what.” This isn’t a question. It is a statement, or a command. It terrifies me. I was hoping that this question wouldn’t arise until I was in a private room with a man who went to medical school for too many years and has been practicing for longer than I have been alive.
“I, uh…well…I think I may have, uh, con- contracted – I mean caught something.” “Sir, you are going to need to be a little more specific. There are many things we may need to look for. What sort of disease do you think you contracted.”
“AIDs.” I can’t believe I said it out loud. I haven’t even officially thought this yet. I mean, I know that Sherry had – has it, but there’s still some semblance of hope that she didn’t give it to me. Sure, we had unprotected sex and I have been feeling like I have the flu for weeks, but I haven’t seen her in months! But then Alex told me that he was diagnosed with it a few weeks ago. Alex. My roommate. I don’t even want to think about all the times we…never mind. I am so fucked.
“Fill these out, bring them back to me, wait over there for the doctor, and please refrain from any drug use while on the property.” She says this with so much boredom in her voice. Is this a common occurrence here? I probably shouldn’t go to the bathroom.
I sit in the waiting room, balancing on the edge of the chair and touching nothing. After a half hour, the receptionist opens a door and calls my name. I was half expecting her to announce to the world why I was here. Everyone looks at me. I feel like they all know. I feel like they’re about to start talking to me as soon as I turn the corner.
She takes me down a drab hallway with nothing to look at. Every door I pass is closed. The reality of this situation is starting to hit me and I’m getting depressed.
The receptionist/nurse has taken me into what looks like a bathroom without a toilet. Without saying a word she puts a tourniquet on my arm, wipes the inside of my elbow with alcohol, and sticks me with a needle. I don’t watch. I stare at the sink. Then, as silently as she started, she’s done. I feel like I should say something because I think she’s about to leave and I have no idea what is going on, but she speaks before I have the chance.
“You will hear from one of our doctors in three to five days.”
“Three to five days?” I am panicking.
“Yes, sir, that’s how long the test takes. And when you come back, don’t stare at my tits.”
What a Shitty Place by Maria Schmitt
I didn’t think that I would ever have to take a test I didn’t need to study for.
I walk into the free health clinic and sheepishly look around. The windows are tinted, which doesn’t matter because the blinds are almost completely closed anyways. The small waiting room has too many chairs for anyone to comfortably sit. Not that I am exactly looking forward to sitting on those chairs anyways. I think if I didn’t have a disease, I will now. The magazines are all from more than a year ago and look as if they could fall apart if you looked at them wrong. No one makes eye contact with anyone. No one speaks.
Behind the bulletproof glass at the counter, an impatient Hispanic woman types furiously. Her black hair has been teased and curled and sprayed so much that I couldn’t even imagine what would happen if she was near an open flame. I hope she’s not a smoker. Her tits are pushed up and squished into a tiny shirt that was probably made for a teenager, not a woman her size. I must have been staring at those tits for too long because she says, “Are you here for the scenery or do you need something?” Her eyes drill deeper into mine with every word.
“Oh, uh…sorry. I was, uh, looking at your nametag.” I have no idea if she’s even wearing one and I’m too afraid to look now. “I, uh, need to get some blood work done.”
“For what.” This isn’t a question. It is a statement, or a command. It terrifies me. I was hoping that this question wouldn’t arise until I was in a private room with a man who went to medical school for too many years and has been practicing for longer than I have been alive.
“I, uh…well…I think I may have, uh, con- contracted – I mean caught something.” “Sir, you are going to need to be a little more specific. There are many things we may need to look for. What sort of disease do you think you contracted.”
“AIDs.” I can’t believe I said it out loud. I haven’t even officially thought this yet. I mean, I know that Sherry had – has it, but there’s still some semblance of hope that she didn’t give it to me. Sure, we had unprotected sex and I have been feeling like I have the flu for weeks, but I haven’t seen her in months! But then Alex told me that he was diagnosed with it a few weeks ago. Alex. My roommate. I don’t even want to think about all the times we…never mind. I am so fucked.
“Fill these out, bring them back to me, wait over there for the doctor, and please refrain from any drug use while on the property.” She says this with so much boredom in her voice. Is this a common occurrence here? I probably shouldn’t go to the bathroom.
I sit in the waiting room, balancing on the edge of the chair and touching nothing. After a half hour, the receptionist opens a door and calls my name. I was half expecting her to announce to the world why I was here. Everyone looks at me. I feel like they all know. I feel like they’re about to start talking to me as soon as I turn the corner.
She takes me down a drab hallway with nothing to look at. Every door I pass is closed. The reality of this situation is starting to hit me and I’m getting depressed.
The receptionist/nurse has taken me into what looks like a bathroom without a toilet. Without saying a word she puts a tourniquet on my arm, wipes the inside of my elbow with alcohol, and sticks me with a needle. I don’t watch. I stare at the sink. Then, as silently as she started, she’s done. I feel like I should say something because I think she’s about to leave and I have no idea what is going on, but she speaks before I have the chance.
“You will hear from one of our doctors in three to five days.”
“Three to five days?” I am panicking.
“Yes, sir, that’s how long the test takes. And when you come back, don’t stare at my tits.”
Monday, January 26, 2009
Figure it out
Well, this entry really doesn't matter, I'm just checking this whole thing out. Playing around.
What is this all about?
Who really cares?
Oh, we shall see...
What is this all about?
Who really cares?
Oh, we shall see...
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