drips and Daubs

Others Stories | May 16, 2012 | 6 min read
56 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Others Stories

drips and Daubs

The process seemed to be taking longer than usual today; they were really rough with the finger prick, and the questionnaire had some items I had never seen before: Have you shaved with an antique safety razor within the last 96 hours? What thread count sheets do you sleep on? Who put the Bomp in the Bomp-ba-bomp-ba-bomp? The last one was especially strange, since this was normally a multiple choice third-degree, and having an essay question in order to give blood was just too odd.

I finished up as best I could, and returned the form to the triage nurse who looked it over with that mild disgust that most people with an inflated sense of authority tend to wear when dealing with the general public, and asked, "Did you use a #2 pencil?"

I'll admit I gave her a bit of the hairy eyeball, and nodded, "Yes, that's all you had."

She snorted, and motioned me in.  The doors hissed open and I climbed inside the bloodmobile. She pointed to a nurse on the left side who was standing there with a smile that seemed way too big; I mean like Julia Roberts times two big; and I walked over. Her name tag read Fonda. Her scrubs were so white they gave off a nimbus, and her grin seemed to widen even farther as I approached. I waved nervously, eying the sharps tray she was holding.

"Good morning!" she chirped in a voice much too chipper for 9am.

"Morning, uh, Fonda. Are you setting me up here?" I pointed to the bed.

She nodded vigorously, a few bobby pins showered out of her hair. I could almost hear them hit the floor. I shook my head. "Well, that's a problem, Fonda; I'm a left arm stick."

Her grin faltered a little, twitching at the corners, then she tittered, "Oh that doesn't matter, we'll get it out of you one way or another!" She gave me finger-guns, punctuating just how alright everything was.

Damn finger-guns. I shrugged and climbed onto the bed, the antiseptic paper crinkling and bunching up under my ass. I slipped off my jacket and laid it across my lap. Fonda grabbed my arm and started running her fingers over it like she was trying to read my fortune. I watched her, and she glanced up and smacked her lips.

"You have some goooood stuff here."

I raised my eyebrow. "Is that right?"

"Oh my, yes. There is excellent pipe in this arm."

I squirmed, growing uneasy. Her hand clamped down, making me freeze. She hissed through her grin, "Don't you move."

I didn't argue.

She started laying out her hardware, and slid on her gloves. She tied the tourniquet on my bicep, and started tapping the big blue throbber in my forearm for what felt like forever. She swabbed me down with betadine, and grabbed the needle. She stripped away the sterile wrapping and held the needle up into the light, watching the light glint and shimmer.

"Um, Fonda?" I whispered.

"Shh, hush now."

I took a deep breath as she turned her face back to me. The needle clutched in her fist seemed to be eight feet long, and it looked mean.  She tilted her head and asked me if I was ready for this. Every fiber of my being collectively screamed no, but I felt my lips open and a faint, slimy "yes..." floated from my tongue. She smiled and I swear to God her teeth had grown; it was like staring at a shark.

"You might want to look away." Had her voice dropped? Surely it had; it was downright chipmunkey when we started this dance, now it was dripping towards husky.

"No, I'm alright; I always watch."

She shrugged, "Suit yourself. Here we go!" She lunged at me, and stabbed the damn thing in my arm. I screamed, the pain blazed; and don't give me any "it doesn't hurt that bad" bullshit; a spike going into your skin hurts, especially when it's kicking through meat and muscle to suck on your vein.  A couple of tears rolled down my cheek and she laughed, she goddamn laughed at me! I stared up at her, then down at the tube full of my precious blood flowing down into the bag and she kicked it oh she kicked it why is she kicking my blood? Oh Jesus what is going on here; I was getting woozy, strains of Debbie Reynolds were flowing into my head as the edges of my vision started growing black- shut up about that whippoorwill god damn you- and Fonda kicked the bag again and again and threw her head back, bobby pins sprinkling the floor and her hair flowed loose down her shoulders and there were snakes in it oh god snakes as she chortled. Are there really snakes? No, no no. I shook my head and things got less foggy and her voice floated down to me molasses slow and twice as thick, "How does it feel to be run dry?"

My eyes widened as I moaned, "What?" and she leaned down and jerked the needle from my arm, more pain, brighter this time, as the blood geysered from my arm, splashing across those holy white scrubs and seeming to sizzle there, and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed and she brought her foot down hard on the bag that was  holding the rest of my life and it splattered up up up onto the bed and her and onto me and I tried to crawl backwards but I was too weak; all I could do was lay there, kicking feebly, making the paper whisper like static, my head full of bees and Fonda's laughter, her hair writhing as she drug her fingers through the pools and splashes on the wall making smiley faces with screaming red mouths.

I rolled off the bed, thumped onto the gritty floor and pulled myself towards the door, my keys and phone digging into my thighs, knowing if I blacked out I was dead meat for sure. I managed to get to a crouch and looked back over my shoulder at that crazy bitch and she was shampooing her hair with my blood-what the Christ? My vision went and I drooped for a moment but grabbed onto a post and managed to haul myself to my feet and brace against the other bed. I didn't want to have my back to Fonda any more. She was wordlessly crooning as she massaged her scalp, and I slid along the beds until I reached the stairs to outside, half expecting her to leap over and grab me like some gore-soaked parkour jumper, but she didn't move, she stood there and kept singing her bloodsong.

I got to the last step when I lost balance and fell outside; the asphalt dug in hard but luckily I got my arms up before I hit my head. I turned over clumsily and sat up, watching the door hiss closed in front of me. Something soft hit my head, and I turned to see the triage nurse, her arms full of Little Debbies and Capri Suns, stalking towards me, pelting me with sweets. A swiss cake roll hit my shoulder and I got up shakily.

Some fruit punch nailed me in the thigh, exploding as I started to run towards the parking lot, and she screamed behind me, "Don't forget to DRINK YOUR JUUUUUIIIICCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

I got to the sidewalk and turned around, watching as she dropped all the snacks and howled at the sky, her hands,  frozen in claws. Black flowers started blooming in my vision as I saw Fonda climb down from the bus, and offer a bloody hand to her. She stopped screaming and began licking the blood-my blood-from Fonda's outstretched fingers, and I sank to the ground.

Fonda looked at me, and her head flopped onto her shoulder. Her mouth was ringed with blood as well, and she grinned, her teeth pointed and far too white. Her lips worked over her teeth as she started mouthing something, and on the wind the whisper hit my ears, "Give here, stays here."

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Reviews

Ayd?n May 23, 2012

1

Angelique May 18, 2012

Thank you!

Rimzhim Dang May 18, 2012

nice one..

Rick May 17, 2012

Brilliant..!

Robert May 17, 2012

Horror with the right touch of humor...perfect! If the last line doesn'tstay with you then you you need to read it again.

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