Your Lifeless Arm

This . . . is not a work of fiction.

A woman I once loved hit me in the face. She hit me as hard as she could. I could tell by how fast she leaped from her chair, by the way her arm muscles twitched, by the clenching of her jaw. I was sitting down when she struck me. The blow knocked the tunnel from my stretched ear lobe. Months later I found the tunnel in a paper sack she had hastily filled with some of my belongings. She must have found it on the floor of her kitchen. I decided I couldn't wear the earring anymore. So, I placed it in an envelope and labeled it "Left - the side she hit me." The right earring was useless without it's matching partner. So, it received a similar treatment, but that envelope simply read "Right." Speaking of my left ear, it rang in waves for three hours after she hit me. Also, it took two days for the redness and swelling to finally subside from my cheek.

Yes, she hit me that hard.

It was an open-handed slap, a description she often used in an attempt to mitigate the violence it actually represented. Through it all, however, violence is violence and one can't soften a physical blow by describing it with soft words. And yes, I know this momentary onslaught was not the worst anyone has ever endured, especially women. Be that as it may, my experience definitely exceeded the cutesy, poorly-deserved slaps across the face you see on television, in books and in the movies. This, as a storytelling cliché, infuriates me to no end because it perpetuates the idea it is acceptable for women to hit men in situations that don't call for it.

The actual chair from which she leaped.

To be clear, this wasn't the only time my ex physically attacked me. She pushed me to the floor of her apartment a couple times. Plus, in the worst times, she administered no shortage of emotional abuse. I could explain the details that gave rise to her abuse and violence. I could talk more about her infidelity and how she lied to me, but these details are really quite unnecessary and, frankly, they are entirely unimportant to me these days. Simply put, the only important thing to know is she took a shit on nearly every relationship agreement we ever made. What's more, I did nothing to warrant her physical or emotional abuse. I did not physically harm her or even threaten her. She wasn't defending her safety. In short, I simply called attention to her narcissistic facade, she lost control and she hit me - flat out.

No gruesome act followed. I did not restrain her or return the violence. I remained quiet as her breath heaved in my face. I was mostly in shock. It's not every day someone, who claims they love you, tries to smack a hole in your face. I recall the way one side of her nose scrunched up tight. How her nostrils flared. And how her blue eyes glowed as angry, frost-bitten orbs. Truly, the look on her face would have scared children. And, under closer consideration, I see this now as one likely explanation for the made-up stories of witches who live alone in a neglected house at the edge of every suburban neighborhood in America.

Yes, her face looked that frightening.

Thinking back on that moment, though, I suppose it could have turned ugly. I recall how, several months later while still suffering from blinding rage over her trespasses, I imagined myself exploding from my chair, grabbing her by the back of the head and smashing her pretty face into the kitchen counter repeatedly until I hyperventilated. I'm deeply ashamed I even thought this, but thank goodness for the difference between a misguided thought and one put into action. I take solace in that I did not become violent as she did. I did not lose control. I did not do what so many men do to women all over the world.

Staring in the face of her narcissistic rage, I stayed relatively calm and curtly said, "You shouldn't have done that."

My physical injury, of course, went away a lot faster than the emotional one. Such is the case when dealing with an abusive partner. In turn, I began having violent nightmares about her, ones where retribution for her violence played out. A couple dreams had her paralyzed from a broken neck. In another, I watched her take a stray bullet in the back of the head from somewhere outside her apartment window and, in my conscious mind, I can still hear the sound of her body hitting the floor; I can still see one of her eyeballs bursting into a fleshy mist when the bullet exited her socket.

I barely slept.

You would think these images would provide some sort of feeling of redemption. Instead, the nightmares crippled me for days. I walked around like a zombie, wide-eyed and reliving the imagery over and over again. I'd sometimes wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks and I'm pretty sure I yelled in my sleep a couple times.

Surrounded by the fear of constantly reliving my nightmares, I resolved to do something about it. A year or so after she hit me, I finally mustered up the courage to write down the dream I had most often. I hoped this treatment would help to flush it from my mind. I hoped to finally kill the thief who had stolen my sanity and my sleep.

The following is what I wrote that night:

I won't be able to scratch the images of your lifeless arm out of my head. Your screams. Your blood. Your loss. These images will stay with me for the rest of my life. They came in the constant nightmares I had after I left you.

This won't be easy . . .

The nightmare goes like this:

I recall thinking, over and over, about how none of this was supposed to happen while I was tied to a load-bearing post in a basement. The shadows were sharp and deep everywhere I looked. The musty smell of mold filled the air. I tried to swallow, but the gag in my mouth prevented it. I choked instead. My tongue tasted like rust. I concentrated on breathing through my nose. The left side of my face hurt. It felt swollen and a trail of something sticky stretched from an ear to my chest - definitely blood.

"Left - the side she hit me."

I blinked my eyes, adjusting to dim light. I heard a body shifting ahead of me. I concentrated through a blur.

And then I saw you.

You were facing away from me, draped over a large wooden barrel. It looked like you were hugging it. Ropes bound your wrists, which were tied off at two eye bolts mounted to the floor on either side of the barrel. You were face-down, but I could see your head bobbing up and down.

You whimpered. The weeping crushed my spirit. You sounded like a dying ghost.

I tried to call out to you, but the dirty rag in my mouth made me sound a thousand miles away. All of my efforts to reach you only made me choke again.

You finally noticed the noise I made. With great strain, you tried to turn your eyes toward me, but you couldn't. I won't soon forget the fear in your voice when you spoke. So broken with fear.

"Who's there?" you asked.

I mumbled through cloth, not making any sense.

"Speak to me, please," you continued, your voice rising and starting to sound like glass breaking in slow-motion.

I couldn't answer you. Whoever put the gag in my mouth knew what they were doing. They knew my words would have made sense to you. They knew my words would have comforted you.

"Speak to me!" you screamed finally, kicking your feet and trying to flail your body off the barrel. But it was no use. You could barely move. Your wrists were bound too tightly.

Tears streamed down my face. I could do nothing to help you. I strained against my own bondage and it didn't budge anymore than yours. I watched you, helpless, convulse over the barrel wracked with fear and grief. You cried so violently that your asthma kicked in and your sobs turned into desperate gulps for air.

I'm not sure why our assailant chose to gag only one of us. There is meaning in that, but I still don't know what it is.

A door suddenly opened at the top of some stairs. From above, a blade of light cut through the stale basement air. I saw specs of dust floating and I made every effort to think of them as frolicking stars - like the stars I recall from the beginning of our relationship.

A squat, pear-shaped figure stepped into the light, hands on hips. The figure issued a sigh that sounded irritated and something about it seemed familiar. I got the feeling I knew the person at the top of the stairs. It sounded like a woman. But who was it? She stepped down and closed the door behind her. The blade of warm light disappeared.

You looked up from your barrel to see the woman full on as she got closer to you.

"Mama?" you said suddenly in soft, hopeful voice. "Oh, mama! Help me! Please, help me!"

My eyes widened in complete disbelief. Your mother stood in front of you. Surely, we'd be saved, but how the fuck did she find us? She lived so far away. She was so far away, so distant from being truly available for most of your life. Her sudden presence seemed out of place.

You sobbed uncontrollably. Tears of relief.

"Help me," you said again with a whisper.

"Shut up!" your mother returned sharply.

A dreadful heat rose in my chest. Your mother was not there to save us.

Seeing I was awake, she walked over to me. Her eyes locked on mine and she grabbed my hair in a tiny, violent fist.

"Mama, what's going on? I don't understand. Get me outta here!"

Still holding my hair fast, she turned her head in your direction and yelled, "Shut up, you stupid girl! I said shut up!" I've heard that voice before; I remember your mother screaming at your step dad when we visited them. It was a lot like your voice . . . screaming at me.

She banged the back of my head against the post and I nearly passed out. And then she slapped me hard across the face. Her eyes lit up with malice while she wiped a bloody hand on her pants. My ear began ringing from the blow and I realized the source of the dried blood.

"You will watch," your mother suddenly said to me.

She turned away and walked over to a work bench lit by a small, teal-colored desk lamp. From the bench she grabbed a dirty hacksaw and walked back to you.

Your mom's breathing turned course, like she had broken, jagged concrete in her lungs. She palmed your chin with her free hand. Her eyes, severe and dangerous, pointed at you and her face contorted with derision.

"Oh, stop your crying, you little shit. Your crying is done! What did I always tell you? You only get to cry for so long and after that you're done. Your sadness is done. Turn it off now!"

She shoved your face from her palm and then knelt down next to you.

I watched in horror as she rested the blade of the hacksaw on your right arm.

Your body went rigid. You had just realized what was about to happen. Your own mother would separate you from your arm.

"Ma-mama, what're you doing?"

"Oh, shut up. It's time for you start seeing things correctly."

"Mama-stop-NO!"

You jerked in all directions to free yourself, but nothing worked.

Without warning, your mother drew the blade across your flesh below your shoulder.

You screamed. I'll never forget that sound. The blade was already deep and your mom continued to saw. I watched her labor change when she got to your bone. Blood poured in waves down the barrel. It pooled on the floor. My eyes reached for the back of my head, but I couldn't stop watching. You wailed and wailed. You sounded like a wild banshee being raped.

Mama's done saving your life.

Your mother gritted her teeth, getting through the bone.

You lost consciousness from the pain.

Your mother grunted, finishing the job.

When she was done, you fell asunder from the barrel to the floor, your arm on one side and the rest of you on the other. Blood squirted from your stump. You came to and the screaming started again. You tried to pull yourself away and I could hear your exposed bone clicking on the concrete floor. Your mother stood up and kicked you in the gut and then she re-positioned herself to punt your nose toward the back of your head. Your nose would be squashed and crooked for the rest of your life because of that kick.

"Quit squirming!" she yelled. "I need to tie off your arm! You have to live through this!"

She applied a tourniquet to your shoulder and the bleeding subsided. You vomited several times until they turned into dry heaves. I didn't blame you; I could barely keep the bile down in my own throat.

You looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. We were both crying. Wet diamonds from my eyes. Wet glass from yours. You had a strange look on your face - as if you were understanding me for the first time, like you finally understood what it meant to sacrifice.

When your mother was done saving your life, she walked over to me and without hesitation hit me upside the head with a 2 X 4. The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness was the image of you peering hopelessly at your dead arm on the floor nearby. You would never have that arm again. You will never drive a manual transmission again. Tying your shoes will be nearly impossible. You won't be able to put up your hair the way you like without paying someone to do it. Every bit of dancing you'll do for the rest of your life will be out of balance. Hugging friends will only be half as strong. And you won't be able to please a lover the same way you use to.

And I . . . I will never forget how you hit me.

The Six Reasons Why I Joined Ballet

Years ago, a wafer-thin catalog from the University of Washington Experimental College showed up in my mailbox. I found it crammed between the throngs of useless advertisement pamphlets and missing persons notices. I tossed out the ads - sorry, I don’t need space-age gutters and I most certainly do not need a half-price bikini wax . . .  and for the record, I don’t need a full-price one either. I studied the missing persons flyers and then recycled those too - sorry again, I unfortunately don’t recognize Joshua Hendersen's ten-year, age-enhanced photo. I wished I had. The catalog almost suffered the same fate as the others, but for some reason it clung to my hand. It apparently had the same adhesion properties as my unwanted bills.

The catalog of "fake" classes (otherwise known as "studies without credits") sat on my desk for a couple of weeks. It taunted me like a bully.

It said, “C'mon, you wimp . . . go on and take a class. Everybody’s doing it! Ya know, you can try yoga, welding or even underwater fucking basket weaving!”

To which I indignantly replied, “Fine, fine! Alright already! I’ll take a look . . . but may I remind you I’m just taking a gander!”

And the catalog said, “Whatever loser . . . oh, and while you’re at it look for a class that’ll make you stop using lame-sounding words like “gander.”

As I casually scanned the various curricula a few ideas leaped from the pages.

This is what legs look like
with biking and ballet.

Hmm . . . I've  been meaning to learn Japanese. I’d like to visit Japan one of these days, maybe to see the remnants of the Okinawa base on which my grandfather served during WWII, or perhaps it might be fun to ride the bullet train in Tokyo and I guess it can’t hurt to know the Japanese words for “condom,” “birth control pills” and “sexually transmitted diseases - as in, do you have any?”

Or . . . gosh, ya know, I’d like to improve my writing . . . maybe I should take a short fiction class. After all, writing is the one of the few callings that has been kicking and screaming my whole life. Perhaps it was time to give it a proper amount of effort. I suppose refining my language skills would be helpful in knowing more seductive ways to utter words such as “condom,” “birth control pills” and “sexually transmitted diseases - again . . . as in, do you have any?” This would really do wonders for masking the bullshit factor in dating.

And then, suddenly, there it was. A class that not only leaped off the page, but it was a class designed, in part, to teach leaping. Beginning Ballet for Adults.

A week after I started classes, I celebrated my 32^nd birthday and at my party my new friend, H, asked me what the hell was up with me taking ballet. I’m paraphrasing, but he said something like, “I don’t get it. You’re a dude with a mohawk and you’re wearing a Neurosis t-shirt. What gives?” We talked for a bit, but I never really got to finish explaining myself. H was kidnapped by some other friends and taken somewhere for one of those I’m-young-and-carefree-Tracy-Chapman-You-Got-a-Fast-Car midnight drives. I, on the other hand, was hosting my own party. So, I dashed away to attend to my guests. Now, to be clear, H wasn't the only one who has asked me to explain myself. So, why ballet?

Reason 1 - Stay Healthy:  As I said earlier, I had just turned 32. They say a person’s metabolism slows down in their thirties and I intended to suspend this harsh reality for as long as I could. My heredity suggests I will be honored by the eventual development of a bowling ball belly. Also, the demon known as heart disease has crept around in my family’s DNA for years, killing relatives. I already knew, because of the propensity of my genetics, the only weapons I had to fight this demon were eating better and exercising more. Last, I cycle everywhere and all the time, which gave rise to some unhappy hip injuries. Cross-training became very important to repair that damage and strengthen my hips. So, why not ballet?

My ballet slippers.

Reason 2 - Reinvention:  I’m generalizing, but what is one of the first things a woman does when she breaks up with someone? She gets a haircut. She does this to cater to the need to reinvent herself, to abandon her old self, the one who was with Joe or Max or Dave or Gayle or Jenny or fence post or whatever she's into. This desire to reinvent is clearly a move to re-establish a lost identity; it is a separation from who you once were with your ex. Also, they hope to magnify their attractiveness to other potential mates. And men, we do the SAME DAMN THING, albeit a little differently. Often, we men begin to workout, making yet another fruitless attempt to finally develop that six-pack. Ballet had become the perfect way to re-invent myself after a break-up. Shamefully, I didn't manage to acquire the six-pack, but that wasn't really the point.

Reason 3 – Congenital Interest:  This is not to be confused with genital interest. Although, I guess there’s nothing really wrong with that. What I’m really getting at is that I loved ballet and I still do. For whatever reason I believe I was hard-wired to enjoy this particular dance form. I admired it from afar for many years. . . even as a boy. The first time I saw a live ballet performance I was 12; I saw the Nutcracker on a field trip to Seattle. So, joining a ballet class wasn't really a far cry away from what I already appreciated.

Reason 4 – Grace Hiccups:  In life, the employment of grace is important. Okay, I’m gonna get a little serious now. A year previous to signing up for ballet, a woman betrayed me in ways that did nothing short of crushing my spirit. I’m reasonably tough-skinned, but even I have a limit to how many lies and cover-ups I can take from someone who I believe loves me. During that time I handled my behavior pretty well, save for a few grace hiccups that can be categorized as punching holes in walls and snooping through her stuff to find evidence of her amoral blunders (I found a lot). I later realized these hiccups didn't show much more grace than she did. In essence, I had lowered myself to her level. What does this have to do with ballet? Easy. There is no better way to fight clumsy behavior than with an art form designed specifically for grace.

Reason 5 - Eye Candy:  Listen, I’m not gonna lie and none of you were born yesterday; it sure is something else to get an eyeful of beautiful women in tights on a weekly basis. Oh the jumping up and down, the pretty smiles, the flexing of the seat muscles and the gracefully elongated necks. Blessed be mine eyes! If I had excluded this reason, then I’d be an awful big let down to evolutionists. Charles Darwin would surely turn over in his grave. Hell, he might even fucking pirouette!

Kiss your fear.

Reason 6 – Fuck You, Fear:  The most dynamic and the most important reason of all, standing even higher than beautiful round bums in tights, was the notion to confront fear. I cannot imagine myself living a life governed by cowardice and anxiety. I must admit, however, I occasionally slipped into these traps back then. Shit, I still do. Joining ballet choked the life out of my fears. Also, it kept the stories coming in, the stories I would one day tell my grandchildren. I want to go through life kissing my fears with an intimacy that beckons me to higher ground. Anything less would be irresponsible living. What's more, I had to get over the stigmas associated with being a man in ballet . . . that I was a wimp, that I was gay, that I wasn't a "real" man. Very quickly, I discovered that learning the positions and the actual dancing proved to be far more challenging than overcoming these stigmas. In fact, I recall having one day of anxiety about the gender and sexuality stereotypes, but after my first class they fell away without a fight, the disappeared in the warmth and encouragement I encountered. I was a dunderhead to have even considered the fears in the first place.

In the end, I learned a great deal about the dance form. Plus, my body and my mind got stronger. New and valuable ideas grew from my guts. And, truthfully, I had also managed to defy the assumption I had joined a ballet class just to get laid. Some of the more cheeky people I knew back then were disappointed by this fact. Others were grateful for it. With that said, I might have been pretty fucking stooopid if I hadn't acted on such an opportunity had it arisen respectfully. After all, Gloria Steinem is counting on me just as much as Charles Darwin, right?

An Anniversary of a Tiny Bucket of Blood

Not much occurred to me when I woke up from brain surgery. In fact, I had a hard time conceiving any thoughts at all. I couldn't say a single word, nor could I lift a finger. Let me say this again . . . because this is important to understand. Imagine for a second that you’re able to take in information, but you are completely unable to do anything with it. I couldn't produce action, let alone create an original, meaningful thought. I was just an observation machine, assaulted by stimuli without a single shred of ability to process it.

Remembering how I couldn't move or think.

In the late 1800’s an early psychologist, named Willhelm Wundt,  developed a method of observation that he called introspection. He believed our cognition rooted itself in a finite number of basic, immediate experiences. He was obsessed with pure observation that avoided the messiness of the context and metaphors we placed on them. For instance, if we saw a Granny Smith apple, we wouldn't observe it as an apple, but rather we would simply say we were experiencing a “sense of green” or “elements of curves,” or “a shininess with light reflecting off an oblong shape.”

To be clear, this was ALL I could do.

I remember laying on a gurney.

That was clear.

And then, they wheeled me into the intensive care unit, which was a blurred cacophony. But, even with all kinds of activity buzzing around, I could only flatly observe. I couldn't do anything with the information. It would simply enter my brain and then stop. It felt like my pre-frontal cortex, which is responsible for higher cognition, was completely detached from my animal brain. But, not even my animal brain could produce a mere fight or flight response.

For all intents and purposes, this should have scared the living shit out of me. My deep fears of paralysis and lobotomization should have swarmed through me, wracking my entire body with anxiety. But, like I said, I couldn't produce a thought with any real meaning. So, my inability to speak and move had no bearing whatsoever; I couldn't even attach my observations to emotion.

I don’t remember how long this disconnect lasted. I DO, however, remember floating in and out of consciousness. And all of this makes sense, considering the after-effects of the anesthesia. Oh, and also, I was fucking high as kite from morphine.

Finally, a few hours later . . . or a day later . . . or whenever later, my brain switched from Willhelm Wundt’s introspection to more normal cognition.

It went something like this: 

“Hmm . . . I’m observing a bunch of long, straight lines, moving in unison with a white orb. And the lines . . . the lines are kind of brown-ish. Ok. And also, there are two sort-of bug-like creatures hanging out next to each other on the white orb. Ok. Good. Got it.”

And, at this point, I’m still not quite processing all the information.

Clearly.

But, finally, I remember that I’m in a hospital.

“Riiiiight. Copy that. I’m in a hospital. Wait a minute? Why am I in a hospital again? Oh yeah! Brain surgery!”

My disjointed thinking continued.

“Alright, to summarize . . . I’m in a hospital. I just had brain surgery. Soooooooo . . . why is there a white orb flying above me next to my bed? And what are these strange brown lines? And, even more importantly, WHAT in the flying fuck are two bugs doing on a floating orb?!”

And then, I have the clearest and most mind-shattering thought of all . . . it’s abundantly clear that I am on DRUGS.

. . . and then . . . without fail . . . of course . . . the ORB starts talking to me!

The orb’s name was Hannah. I listened to her intently, processing all that she said to me at a capacity no greater than a jester in a court of dunderheads.

I managed to say my first words.

“Hello Hannah. I think . . . I think I’m on drugs.”

She laughed.

And then I think, “Wait a minute. Orbs don’t laugh. And why was this orb a woman?”

A woman!

Suddenly, my brain jump-started, kicked into overdrive, and I came to the full realization that the ORB IS A WOMAN’S FACE!

Of course . . . leave it up to the presence of a woman to sway ME back into consciousness.

The amalgamation of straight, brown lines was her beautiful hair, bordering the white skin of her cheeks and forehead. And what about the two errant bugs on the orb? They were horn-rimmed glasses perfectly placed over her eyes.

The two bug-like creatures just hanging out.

Hannah, my ICU nurse, was the first person I really remember after I got a window cut in my head. I have no clue if I saw members of my family, or my girlfriend, or anybody else before meeting Hannah. I just don’t remember.

She asked me a few questions. Ya know, the standard ones to find out if I’m lucid. And then, I think she asked a few more questions to assess my cognitive functions. She seemed satisfied.

That was good news. No brain damage.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m hungry.”

“Nope . . . no food. Not yet. Not until the morphine and anesthesia wear off. I don’t want you puking all over my shoes.”

She was wearing gorgeous, reddish-black clogs.

“Oh, but I’m starving,” I whined.

“I know, hun. You can have some Jell-O, here, in a bit. But, for now, just rest.”

“Alright.”

I closed my eyes and slept.

I hadn't eaten in nearly 24 hours. You see, as some of you know, patients are often starved 12 hours before surgery so they don’t end up ralphing in their intubation tube or all over the operating table. The reason I went 24 hours without food was credited to a cancellation of my first proposed surgery, which was a half a day earlier. It was cancelled because the attending brain surgeon had to suddenly operate on a victim of an awful car accident. When I learned this, I remember thinking of how lucky I was that my health was stable . . . relatively speaking. I was still in danger of losing my life because there was there was a damn lump in my head from a mysterious bacterial infection. But, honestly, in light of the car accident, it didn't bother me at all that I had just missed my opportunity to eat more food before I had to wait another 12 hours for my craniotomy.

Jell-O brains from my
10-year brainniversary party.

When I woke up again, a cup of cool water and a bowl of green Jell-O had appeared at my bedside. Hannah fed me. I was too weak to lift a damn spoon. I sipped the water through a straw. I dislike straws. I think they are a COMPLETE waste of plastic. With that said, it was pretty useful in that moment. On top of it all, I was deeply grateful to taste anything other than the plastic flavor left in my mouth from being throat-fucked by an intubator.

I pleaded for more food, but Hannah asked me to wait. She wanted to see if the water and Jell-O came back up. Not once, not even then, did I ever feel nauseous from morphine. And, unfortunately, considering the brain surgery and the five times I've been hit by cars, I was no stranger to morphine. So, I still have no idea what they were talking about in terms of these supposed adverse side-effects. But, clearly, my guts must be made of steel. I could probably eat a pig’s anus and not even flinch. Well, to be fair, I might have to fry it up first and put mustard on it.

Anyway, throughout the morning . . . um, afternoon . . . evening, Hannah and I spoke off and on, between her taking care of other patients. It took me a while, but I realized I had met her before. She was the sister of a friend’s friend. Actually, I remember that meeting quite clearly. It was at her house. And . . . I’m pretty sure I danced in front her solo to that Madonna song “Justify My Love” . . . but THAT’S another story.

Finally, Hannah came up to me and said, “Ok, it’s time.”

“Time for real food!” I said gleefully.

“No, not quite,” she said. “It’s actually time to pull out your tube.”

“My tube? What tube?”

“Um . . . so, they drilled a hole in the crown of your head and then they put a tube in it.”

“They did?” I said incredulously. “Why did they do that?”

“Well, your brain is swollen from the trauma of the operation. They needed to give you a bit of room. So, they drilled a hole in your head, put a tube in it, and ran one end of it into to a cup to drain off some brain fluid.”

“A cup? Where?”

“Oh, it’s over there,” Hannah said, weakly gesturing to somewhere next to my bed.

I tried to sit up and see it, but I couldn't.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“What? No, hold on a second. Let me get this straight. I-have a tube-IN-MY-HEAD?”

“Yep.”

“And-there’s a cup-of my brain fluid-right there?”

“Yep,” she said, nodding cheerfully.

“Let me see it."

“Oh, I’m not supposed to show patients their own blood and stuff. It’s not a good idea.”

“The hell it isn't. It’s MY brain blood. I made it. I wanna see it!”

Hannah realized right way I wasn't going to budge.

“Ok, but you have to promise me you won’t vomit.”

“I promise. I’m good with blood.”

Hannah smiled and reached down where the tube slithered past one of the pillows supporting me. When she raised her hand again a plastic cup, a little bigger than a shot glass, came into view. It was plumb full of the thickest blood I had ever seen. I won’t soon forget how it cascaded downward in subtle, soft waves, much like a recently poured Guinness does in a pint glass. The only difference was that it looked more like a tiny bucket of blood.

“Now are you ready?” Hannah asked.

A "brain blood" shot from my 10-year
brainniversary party.

“Yeah,” I answered.

Hannah put the cup down and took a position behind my head. She explained how I wouldn't feel the tube coming out because there are no nerve endings in my head or on my brain. She said all I might feel is a slight tug as it passes through my skin where it entered.

I braced myself for what would probably be one of the weirdest sensations of my life.

And then she pulled.

I felt the tug and nothing else.

But I didn't feel just the tug alone. It felt a little bit like something else. Ya know, a little like how it feels when you’re picking your nose and you get that one booger that’s connected to a string of snot high up in your nasal cavity. And then, when you pull it all the way out and your snot is hanging from the tip of your finger like a suspended drip of swamp water, you get one of the best feelings of satisfaction!

THAT’S EXACTLY what it felt like to get that tube pulled out of my head.

A tiny seepage of blood dribbled down the back of my head and Hannah sopped it up with a bit of gauze. She plugged the hole with more gauze and a strip of medicine tape.

“Ok?” she asked.

“Yup, but still hungry."

“Ok then, I’ll take your brain blood away and bring back some food.”

Hannah gathered up the tube and cup and started to walk away.

“Hold on,” I said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“I’m wondering if you could tell me something.”

“What's that?”

"I'm wondering - well, I think I've come down off the morphine now, but I'm wondering if I'm seeing things clearly. Could you tell me . . . is there any bullshit in that cup?"

She Will Be Long and Sharp

The early morning night still gripped the rolling hills around me while Grace and I walked at the bottom of a slope. We fumbled upwards in pockets of shadows, partly unsure of our footfalls, and I took note of dawn as a sliver of light in the far away sky. Uphill, to my right, I could barely make out the shape of a naked, lone tree. And to my left, also uphill, rested an old abandoned, claw foot bathtub. Grace had just woken me from a fitful slumber. I rubbed my eyes with the pads of my fingers.

She kidnapped me yesterday. Grace had a habit of doing this. No explanation. "Just shut up and come with me," she would say. And who am I to argue with her? Besides, I was delighted to spend any time at all with her, especially ever since I learned she was still alive.

The shack in which she placed me the prior evening had been comfortable and warm, thanks to a radiating pot-belly stove. I dined on fresh fruit, exotic cheese, and red wine for supper. Despite these comforts, sleep managed to escape me. Probably because Grace disappeared shortly after delivering me to the shack, which was a wont that often sent an unnerving sensation up my spine. This makes sense though. She was constantly busy, administering her version of perspective to those in need of such. I've seen her work before; it's alarming how effective she is at giving people exactly what they need, good or bad.

I once watched her provide a man with a machete so he could chop off another man's hands. Conversely, I witnessed her save a baby falling from a building with a sudden gust of wind, which pushed the infant gently through the air to an awning below. Grace's job is certainly odd. I don't understand half the things she does, but I know that, in some way or another, they boil down to a proper amount of retribution.

We continued to walk together uphill.

"You slept poorly," she said flatly.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"That was me."

"Oh," I said back. "Why didn't you let me sleep?"

"You and I both know you do your best thinking when you're tired."

"Right," I said, nodding at the hillside in front of me.

I glanced over at Grace and patted her naked shoulder gently. Strands of her long, thick, steel gray hair swayed over my forearm and it felt like a silk curtain. Her strange hair belied her youthful skin, which almost looked silver in the growing light. Grace rarely wore clothes because the exposure helped heal all the scars she chose to carry. It was also her job to take on and process scars when she deemed it time for people to let go of them. On her skin they would disappear over time. Some would go away faster than others, depending on their magnitude. I can always tell how busy she's been by how many scars are on her body. She had many that day at the shack. Her skin was rarely devoid of them.

"Here," she said suddenly. "Stop here."

"Why? I wanna be warmed by the sun at the top of the hill."

"You can't. You're not ready . . . not yet. You keep making stupid choices."

I looked at the ground and my face lengthened with shame. I knew what she was talking about. I wanted to explain, but with her such an effort would be wasted.

Seeing my reaction Grace calmly placed a hand on my forearm. I could feel her soft, grey eyes looking at me, but I continued to stare at the rich, upturned soil at my feet.

"When do you suppose they last plowed this field?" I asked in an even tone, trying to change the subject.

Grace ignored my words. The question admittedly held no purpose other than to fill the frigid air in front of me with puffs of white breath.

"She will be long and sharp," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Long and sharp. She will be long and sharp."

"Who will?" I asked stupidly.

Grace sighed heavily, but punctuated the expression with a soft chuckle. I absentmindedly leaned over and picked up a smooth, round stone, which Grace immediately slapped from my hand. It landed in the dirt with a soft thud.

"No," she said curtly. "Long and sharp."

A single diamond tear welled in my eye and then streaked down my cheek.

"Very well," I said, finally looking at her. "But what shall I do now?"

Her eyebrows knitted, but eventually gave way to a comforting smile. The violent motion that dislodged the stone from my hand turned into gentle fingertips on my chin. She stood in front of me and her hot breath flowed up my nose. She smelled like lilacs and leather.

"For the time being," Grace said, "you will surrender to the cold. It's time for you to shiver."

And then Grace stepped away, but continued to stare deep into my eyes. She saw through me. She always did. No part of me could be secret to her. No lie could ever be told to her. In fact, I always had the feeling she’d sick wild beasts on me if ever I told her a lie; with frenetic violence they would tear my flesh away from my bones to dig out the sinful untruths.

I shivered at the thought of these beasts. I shivered from the cold.

Her face became dreadfully serious and her eyes finally stole away from mine, pointing to something in the distance, something in the darkness of this wretched, frozen hill side. I squinted in the same direction and saw a figure of a person perched in the silhouette of the lone tree. The branches mangled themselves as wicked black veins against the burgeoning light of dawn.

Fear struck me.

“Now that you are shivering,” Grace started, “you are ready. It is time for you to face three of my . . . well . . . let’s just say they are three of my employees. They work independently, but they act under my direction because of some favors I did for them thousands of years ago. I affectionately call them ‘The Grace Getters.’ They are the muses of grace. They are my muses . . . and they will show you what you need to know.”

Grace paused and sighed reverently.

“Go to him,” she said, nodding in the direction of the figure in the tree. “He is the first of three. His name is Bale.”

“What will he teach me?” I asked.

Grace smile again, looking back at me. “See? You do think better when you’re tired. Just go to him, my dear. And know this, he rarely takes leave of his tree, but if he does, be mindful not to touch him!”

“Touch him? What will happen if I -”

“Just heed my warning. Do not, under any circumstances, touch Bale.”

“Alright . . . okay! I won’t touch him.”

“Now go.”

I breathed in deeply, but couldn't hear my breath under the chattering of my teeth. I turned away from Grace and walked toward the tree.

It wasn’t far, only about 200 meters away. I watched Bale closely, attempting to assess my risk. Oddly, he actually seemed quite innocuous. As I grew closer to the twisted tree, I observed him squatting on a sturdy, low branch.  He furiously scratched the back of his head with grimy hands. I could hear the scraping of his fingernails against his dry, leathery skin.

Bale was human . . . but maligned. He looked frail, but possessed a strange, sinewy body. He had deep blue eyes that bulged from his eye sockets and a large mouth that extended well into his cheeks. He was hairless, save for a smattering of long, wispy hairs on his head and chin. One ear was grotesquely larger than the other and it flopped over. His hands were surprisingly long and his fingers ended with broken, overgrown nails. He wore no shirt, but covered his privates with a dirty, gray cloth, which looked like a loose-fitting diaper.

He sat on his haunches with bony knees pointed toward the sky.

I arrived at the tree with my heart constricted.

He saw me. Then he stared at me quietly. One of his eyes kept twitching uncontrollably. He scratched his chin.

And then I saw them . . . the red dots. He had open, festering sores all over his body. Some issued trickles of blood and others oozed a thick, white pus.

Bale’s mouth opened. His teeth were jagged, yellow, and broken. A sound came from the back of his throat, a sort of soft growl that sounded like broken glass scraping against stone.

“You’ve come,” he said.

“Yes, Grace sent me.”

His lips closed and he gave a soft grunt. “Yes, of course she did. Grace is my friend.”

“I see.”

“Grace is my friend,” he repeated.

“So she said.”

He gave another scratchy grunt. A string of pus fell from his leg and landed on a leaf, resting below the tree. The leaf sizzled and hissed and then shriveled up.  My eyes widened as I watched the leaf harden into a moldy nugget, like a deformed pit from a nectarine. Within moments the pit shook and cracked open. And from it some kind of beetle broke free and pattered away.

And then, the sore on Bale’s skin, from which the bug was born, completely disappeared.

I took a step back.

Bale laughed, which sounded like more broken glass on stone.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Um . . .”

He laughed again, amused.

“So, why did Grace send you?”

“Um . . . well, she said it was time for me to meet you.”

“She said that, did she?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . . yes, I suppose it is time. You’re close, ya know?”

“I . . . I’m close?” I stammered.

“Yes, you idgit!” he hollered. “Even I can see you’re close, but you talk like a damn fool.”

I suddenly felt incensed by his lack of manners, which gave rise to an empowered heat in my chest. I stood up straight and steadied my eyes on him.

“You have a lesson for me,” I said curtly.

Bale squeaked at my sudden fortitude and his one eye twitched faster. When his eyelid calmed again, he spoke.

“Do you know what I do? Do you know why I have these sores all over?”

I pondered only a second and answered quickly, “Judging by Grace’s occupation, you must be the one to take on the sores of the living . . . just as Grace takes on the scars.”

“Hmm . . . close, my good man. Your guess is close. I do, in fact, take on sores . . . but not from the living. I take them from the dead.”

“But what do the dead care about sores? Surely, the dead are not affected by such festering vexations.”

Bale gritted his teeth – as if to hold back a wince of disapproval.

“You know nothing of the dead. You do not know how they walk. You do not know how they move on from this realm to the next. You do not know how they suffer. I take from them their sores so they may move on to the divinity for which they are meant to wield.”

“Well then, Bale, how is this of use to me? What lesson am I to glean from you?”

My tone mocked him and I stood tall.

But this was an affront to him and he leaped from his tree, shrieking loudly all the way to the ground.

My eyes went wide and my breath quickened.

Stumbling backwards, I tripped in the thick soil and fell flat on my back. Grace’s warning rang in my ears and I instinctively threw my hands up to protect myself.

Bale heaved sharp breaths into the air. Pus oozed to the ground at his ankles and more beetles formed. All of them ran away except for one, which raced up my pant leg and dug its pincers into my calf.

I screamed. I smacked the outside of my pants in the general area of the pain and I heard a crunch.

But it was too late.

First, I felt a tingling sensation grow from my leg and then it began traveling up to my groin. Soon my whole leg was numb and the feeling slithered up my torso.

“What is this!?” I screamed at Bale.

A smile curled on his ugly face and with a gentle voice he said a single word.

 “Venom.”

I looked back to Grace. I yelled her name, but she didn’t look up. She seemed busy, burying some kind of stake into the ground from where I had left her.

Bale stood over me and pointed a bony finger at my face.

“You will die now,” he said.

And then . . . I died.

Bale walked to my side and crouched on his haunches.

He waited.

Then he waited some more.

One of his hands cupped his chin while the other rested limply in the cold dirt.

And when he was sure I was dead . . . he touched me.

With deft hands he rolled up my pant leg and inspected the damage. The beetle was smashed. Bale scraped it off with the edge of his hand. My skin couldn’t feel his work. My eyes stared, unseeing, at a quiet, star-filled sky.

The gash from the beetle pincers had formed into an open sore. The pus flowing down my leg was yellow, but when it touched the ground it hardened and turned bright blue. When the shell broke open a brilliant, azure-colored beetle crawled out.

Bale scratched his head and sighed heavily. “This is gonna be a tough one,” he said aloud.

A voiced chimed softly from above him, “Get it over with, Bale. I have work to do.”

It was Grace.

Bale looked up at her and nodded. His voice relaxed, his eye stopped twitching, and he said, “Yes, old friend, I must be quick.”

He placed one of his long hands on my sore, closed his eyes, and began chanting in a mysterious language that seemed ancient. While Bale concentrated, Grace violently smashed the blue beetle with a rock. She pommeled it violently until it was a mash of guts and blue exoskeleton shards.

“I fucking hate the blue ones,” she said as she wiped sweat off of her forehead with the back of her hand.

Bale finished his prayers and removed his hand from my skin. The sore was gone.

“Your turn,” he said, jutting his chin in Grace’s direction.

“Good,” she replied, “we have time.”

She kneeled next to me and began spitting in the dirt near my shoulder. A small foamy puddle of her saliva formed there. When she finished that, she then mashed the dark soil into it, making mud. Bale helped by ripping my shirt open, exposing my chest. Grace dipped her forefinger in the mud repeatedly and drew a large cuneiform rune in the shape of a short lightning bolt directly over my heart. When she finished the symbol, hot steam began rising from it and it burned into my skin.

“We’re ready, Bale.” she said. “Now concentrate.”

Bale closed his eyes again and began humming a mantra. Grace placed both of her palms on my chest, stretching her fingers wide.

“Cover your ears,” she commanded. “This is gonna be pretty fucking loud.”

Bale did as he was told, but continued to chant. Grace stared at my face. Her fingers flexed. Her heart raced, but she breathed evenly.

Grace inhaled deeply and then, with the lungs of a titan, she screamed, “Live!”

Her cry stretched over several seconds. The magnificent power of her voice knocked Bale over and dirt exploded in all directions.

And then . . . I opened my eyes and breathed. I saw burgeoning light. I saw fading stars. I saw Grace’s face over mine. I saw Bale nearby, brushing flecks of dirt off of himself, but staring at me with quiet, reverent eyes.

Grace helped me to my feet, which were shaky and numb. I felt groggy at first, but my attention snapped into form when Bale spoke.

“I must be off,” he said.

“Of course,” answered Grace. “I'm glad I got to see you.”

Bale grinned wide. “Agreed,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll see each other sooner than a few hundred years, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“As for you, my good man,” he said, pointing a twitchy eye at me, “I would shake your hand, but I can only touch the dead. Be well.”

And with that he turned on his heel and walked back to his tree. When he reached it, to my amazement, the tree shivered and moved. It took on a different shape entirely and one branch even reached down to pat Bale on the shoulder gingerly. They walked away together and disappeared into a valley still dark with the waning night.

“That was weird,” I blurted.

Grace chuckled.

“That, my friend, is an understatement. Now, take my hand while you get your bearings. We must walk back to where we started.”

I peered over the field of rocks and dirt and spotted the stake I saw Grace fussing with earlier. We walked toward it. When we arrived, Grace promptly let go of my hand and busied herself with a rope that appeared to be braided from a series of long, thin hair-like roots. I had no idea what plant they came from. The rope seemed intensely durable and was about three feet long. Grace tied an impossible knot at both ends and tightened one around the stake in the ground, which was as thick as my arm with an eyelet at the top. The stake was rusted steel and didn't budge at all when I gave it a decent kick.

Grace laughed.

“It’s not going anywhere,” she said. “Now, give me one of your feet.”

I did as I was told and Grace began tying the rope around my ankle.

“Uh . . . what now?” I asked finally, growing nervous.

“This is the second trial, my dear. Brace yourself . . . you’ll need your creativity for this one.”

“Oh Grace, can’t we come back to this tomorrow or something?” I whined. “Ya know, I did just kind of die and came back to life. I’m a little tired.”

“Hush,” she said, playfully slapping my thigh. “Dying is nothing. There are worse things than dying.”

She finished tying the knot and pulled it aggressively tight.

She continued talking, “For instance, drowning in a river of warm blood and then being brought back with brain damage would be worse than dying, especially for you who fears being alive without your faculties.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “that'd be awful.”

With that, Grace’s eyebrows suddenly knitted together and her lips pressed tightly over her teeth. She slowly walked backward away from me uphill, leaving me tied to a damn stake in the gully of a hillside.

“What the –," I began. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t . . . I can't intervene. You must go at it alone,” she said somberly.

I realized I would now face the second of “The Grace Getters.”

“Who is this second muse of yours, Grace?” Who is it!?” I hollered.

“Blood,” she whispered. “It is every drop of blood that has been shed since the beginning of time.”

“Blood?” I said in disbelief, but just as I uttered the word a wave of warm liquid splashed over my feet and against the backs of my knees.

I looked down. I looked behind me. An awful heat rose in my chest. A river of thick, crimson blood had appeared in the gully in which I stood. The roof of the shack I spent the night in barely poked above the liquid’s surface and would soon be overtaken . . .

. . . and so would I.

Another wave hit me and the blood rose to my waist. The stake I was tied to had disappeared. I reached down to give the stake a tug. Nothing. I made desperate attempts to untie Grace’s knots, but it was no use. They held fast.

I had to cut the rope. I had to work quickly.

Breathing deep, I dove down. Through the current I searched the soil at my feet, looking for a stone with an edge. I could see nothing. I felt around blindly and frantically.

A round stone. No.

A curved, but dull stone. No.

I had to come up for air, but I held on, lungs burning. I could feel sediment and debris swiftly floating by my hands. I dug deep into the dirt . . . and then I felt it jutting out, a long and sharp rock. I jerked it loose and rose to the surface.

My body imploded with air and I coughed blood from my mouth. The level was up to my chest. I inhaled quickly and submerged again.  I found the stake and began working the stone on the rope against it. I had barely cut it before I needed to come up for air again. When I did, I could no longer have my feet on the ground. I took more desperate breaths, wading above the stake. If I didn’t cut the rope, this would be the last time I would breathe air.

I concentrated. The blood rose to my chin. I felt the rope taut at my ankle. I gripped the stone in my hand. I closed my eyes and inhaled all I could from above.

Each move, from then on, had to be precise. I pulled myself down with my tether, found the cut I made earlier, and sawed at it with mechanical, even strokes.

It finally started giving. I avoided panic, though my air had run out and I was feeling light-headed. I was tempted to give up and let the warmth of the blood cradle me into a sweet sleep. I turned the stone over and cut from the underside with sharp, pulling motions. And just as I was about to open my lungs to blood, the tether came loose.

I pushed off the head of the stake with my foot and exploded from the river. The current was already sweeping me away. Luckily, I’m a strong swimmer and made my way to the shore not far from Grace. I rested face down in the dirt with the long, sharp stone still gripped tightly in my hand and warm blood lapping at my feet.

Grace walked toward me then helped me up. My clothes were soaked. I looked back at the river, which had leveled out, but had no signs of receding.

The blood on me had run cold. I began shivering again.

Grace was unusually quiet. I looked at her and she averted her eyes from me and swiped the pads of her fingers under both eyes.

“Are you crying?” I asked. I had never seen Grace cry. She was normally stoic and neutral.

“Yes, now leave me be,” she answered.

“No,” I returned. “What is it?”

Grace sighed – as if to remember something from a long time ago.

“Fine, fine!” she blurted. “I lost someone close to me in the river of blood. They never got to the third trial. I am forbidden from helping at this stage; I had to sit and watch them drown. It . . . it killed me to see you struggle, to see you come up for what could have been your last breath.”

My jaw went slack. Grace had never spoken of this, even when we were in love years ago.

“Oh, don’t fuss about it.” Grace said, already regaining her composure. “Go on and get cleaned up.”

She forced a smile and pointed behind me to the abandoned bathtub I saw earlier. It was steaming with hot water.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the clean water gingerly, which promptly turned red. I dunked my head under and the water turned even darker. When I came up, Grace was sitting on the edge of the tub, legs crossed away from it, and one hand resting in the water. She looked as though she was paying homage to the moment.

“The blood is so nutritious, but it can kill you in a quantity too great,” she said softly.

I nodded while squeezing the excess blood water from my long hair. Grace looked at me and smiled. She was clearly relieved at my escape from blood death.

“What’s my third trial, Grace?” I asked after a few peaceful moments of our eyes staring at each other.

“He’s here now,” she said through her smile while pointing her chin over my shoulder.

I turned in the water, gripping the side of the tub, and spied two dark, robed figures heading in our direction. One was over 7 feet tall and the other was one third that size. The taller figure carried a massive scythe and each time the butt of it hit the ground the water in the tub rippled.

I sighed heavily and my eyes rolled, looking back at Grace.

“Death? Really? Ugh, I hate that guy. He’s so annoying and always chattering.”

“Come now,” Grace started, “show your respect, dear. You’re lucky he’s late. You would have died today had he been more punctual.”

I sighed again. I hadn’t seen him since my aunt’s funeral when he tried to recruit me as his replacement. As the two sauntered toward us, I exited the tub and put on the fresh clothes Grace playfully shoved in my gut.

“Well, hello there!” said Death cheerfully.

“Good morning, sir!” Grace said, extending her hand to greet him. They shook hands. Grace pulled away, shaking off the grip of Death.

“Woo, still pretty cold!” she exclaimed, massaging the freezing hand with the other.

“Hello Death,” I said flatly.

I knew better than to shake his hand. I didn’t have Grace’s constitution. I would have died immediately.

“Hello, my good man! It’s been a bit . . . since your aunt’s funeral, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, biting my tongue.

“And this must be your new recruit,” Grace said, shifting our attention to the girl at Death’s side.

The child was beautiful and no more than 10-years-old. Her hair was platinum white and straight and her eyes shone a brilliant ice blue. Her expression was serious and stern, but she lovingly clutched onto Death’s robe with a porcelain-colored hand.

Death patted her on the head with a bony hand.

“Show your respect, sweetie,” he commanded gently. “This young lady is my boss and this man is no slouch.”

Death had never complimented me, which made my body relax. He was probably more amenable because Grace was standing next to me. Usually, he’s mouthy and insufferable. The little girl released her hand from his robe and bowed before us with a down-turned face.

“What’s your name,” I asked her.

“She doesn’t talk much. Her name is Quinine,” explained Death.

“How pretty,” said Grace.

“Quinine? That’s interesting,” I interjected.

“Yes, both her parents died from malaria deep in the Amazon. I gave her that name when I took her in. It seemed appropriate and she liked it much better than Kimberly. You can also call her Quin for short if you like. She’s fond of that too.”

“Hi Quin,” said Grace, smiling at her. Quin’s face relaxed and she returned the smile.

“How long will her training be?” I asked.

“Oh, two or three hundred years. It will depend on her, but she’s picking up the job pretty fast though. She’s been under my care for only a couple years now and she’s already ushered at least a thousand deaths all on her own. A real natural she is. She can even carry my scythe for a good 20 minutes now. She’s been practicing. Haven’t you?” he said, pointing his eye sockets at her.

Quinine nodded quietly.

“Speaking of which,” Death continued, “it’s time for your final trial today.”

Grace nodded.

The palm of my hands grew sweaty and cold. I had been dealing with death all morning, but this seemed different. Death was standing in front of me. If I screwed up, he’d be right here to take me.

“What must I do?” I said finally.

Death looked at Grace.

“May I?” he asked.

“By all means,” she answered, opening an acquiescing hand in his direction.

Death bent at his waist and whispered in Quinine’s ear. She quickly nodded and tottered off some 10 paces away and stopped. She faced us, and then folded her tiny hands together. She breathed deep in concentration and exhaled some indiscernible word, an utterance more powerful than her small frame seemed able to carry. She stood solid and waited.

Death nodded an approval to her and then turned to me.

“I understand you died this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered with a quivering lip.

“Good. And then, you almost drowned in the river of blood shed by the forbears of all time?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . . yes, you have died and then you almost died. And now . . . now, you must contend with the worst element found in death. You must carry it.”

Death paused. Silence seemed less quiet than usual; actually, it screamed from every direction. Death and Grace peered at each other. Grace’s eyes were serious and she swallowed hard. Quinine remained motionless.

Scythe in hand, Death stepped closer to me. His look was so eerie that my soul was tempted to surrender to him without a fight, just to get him to stop looking through me. He raised his scythe high in the sky, temporarily blotting out the beginning of dawn and then brought it down with a swift, agile thrust into the earth.

The ground shook. A sonic boom sounded from far away.

The scythe stood fast on its own. The soil just around it blackened and then turned to dust. The river of blood behind me bubbled. I looked back and noticed the current had suddenly changed directions.

“Things always change when death is around,” I said aloud, turning back to Death and Grace.

They both nodded.

“Carry my scythe. With it, you will carry the weight of death and all of its elements. Carry it . . . to Quinine and release it unto her. She will help you the moment you gently place the scythe in her hands. She will take on the terrors, the fears, and the abominations of death . . . but you must carry it to her. If you do not, if you drop my scythe anywhere other than into her willing hands, then she has been instructed to place you directly into your worst fear, to maim you at your neck, leaving your mind intact to suffer the prison of a motionless body for the rest of your life.”

The feeling of burning electricity charged my skin. I raised fingertips to my forehead and they came away damp with sweat. I looked to Grace for support. She said nothing and her eyes were far away. The chill of the air around me dissipated; I warmed it with a strange heat brought on by the notion of carrying death and facing paralysis, the worst of my fears.

I sighed and stared at the thick wooden handle of the scythe for several moments.

I sighed again.

I raised my shaking hand to it and I could already feel the screams on my fingertips. And then suddenly my hand retreated to my chest; it rested there over my heart while I contemplated my actions. I was about to carry all of death a mere 10 paces. I really considered the notion and it was difficult to imagine.

Think about it. If someone asked you to carry world-wide death for even just a few seconds, would you be able to do it?

I had to.

I had to be swift, for no mortal is prepared to carry such a weight. My breath leaned into the forthcoming weight. My hand harnessed all the moxie it could find in my heart.

Silence.

. . . and with what seemed like a sudden jump into a dark chasm I gripped the scythe with both hands, jerked it from the earth, and began walking it to Quinine.

The screams were deafening. Dying and dying and dying everywhere in my skull. The weight of the scythe alone was daunting and it threatened to burst from my arms to the ground. I grunted and my face contorted under the strain of constant and overwhelming death. I began seeing visions of the dead and dying. People, animals, plants, everything wailing in gut-wrenching pain.

Halfway to Quinine I began sobbing. Tears flowed from my eyes like the release of ancient, glacial floods. My legs were growing heavy. I hugged the scythe to my chest. My head became dizzy and my vision blurred.

I fell to my knees.

Grace inhaled a short, anxious breath and instinctively leaped forward to help me, but Death grabbed her elbow. She screamed in pain from the blast of furious cold issued from his hands. I couldn't look at her. I had to concentrate, but I wanted nothing more than to run to her and bring her comfort.

And this became my purpose to go on.

With a colossal effort I heaved myself back to my feet. The visions were unbearable and they continued with great ferocity. People being murdered. Dreadful accidents. Violence in war. Loved ones suffering. I blinked my eyes. Quinine was only a few steps away, stern-faced and obedient. And then, weaving between the screams and visions I somehow heard Grace whisper.

“She will be long and sharp,” she said. “She will be long and sharp.”

My heart swelled. A hidden chamber of my love unlocked . . . and I finished the walk to Quinine. She smiled affectionately as she took the weight of death from me. When the scythe had fully rested in her hands, I collapsed to the ground. My whole body shook and writhed in the dirt. Dreadful, uncontrollable screams issued from my lungs. I frantically pawed at my head to remove all I had just experienced.

And then I vomited.

Shoving Death aside, Grace ran to me. She knelt behind me and began smoothing the hair out of my face. My screams subsided to whimpers and then, I began breathing softly. My body stopped convulsing. My heart stopped racing.

I looked up at Grace. “They won’t stop,” I implored. “The thoughts won’t stop.”

“Yes, I know,” Grace whispered. “Believe or not, Death has given you a great gift.”

“What? This? How can these awful screams and wretched visions be a gift?"

“Yes,” Death interjected, walking closer, “the gift of perspective. From now on, until the day you die, you will know, with unparalleled conviction, the difference between right and wrong. Because of what you carried, you will consistently make better choices. You will consistently know what love to throw at fear.”

“He’s right,” Grace concurred.

Exhausted, all I could do was nod.

“Well Grace, my dear, if you no longer require my services, then I will take my leave. Quinine and I have a bit of ushering to catch up on.”

Grace helped me to my feet. I nearly fell over, but she held me up.

“Of course,” Grace said. “Thank you, Death. It was good to see you again, old friend, and I was very pleased to finally meet Quinine.”

I nodded respectfully to Death.

“Thanks . . . I guess,” I said to him.

“Ha! See you ‘round, kiddo.”

“Hopefully, not too soon,” I returned.

He chuckled.

Quinine handed the scythe back to Death. She placed one hand in his and waved to Grace and me with the other.

“Bye,” she said with a sweet voice.

And then, they both turned and walked away. Grace and I watched them for a while. Quinine began skipping, still holding Death’s hand.

“What a spectacle,” I said to Grace. “I can’t believe that guy works for you.”

Grace smiled at me, lips pressed together, and rested her head on my shoulder for a moment. When Death and Quinine had finally disappeared around a bend, we both sighed.

“Well, you've had a hell of a morning, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I returned.

I kissed her temple and beckoned her to walk with me to the top of the hill so I could finally be warmed by the sun. The light was about to spill forth over it. We walked for a bit, but then she stopped.

“I can’t go with you,” she said suddenly.

“What? Why?”

“Listen, when you were carrying death, I said to you ‘She will be long and sharp.’ Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you think of when I said that?”

“Well . . . I . . . uh – “

“Go on now, you can tell me. Who was it?”

“Well, I don’t know who she was, Grace? But I saw a woman.”

“Describe her.”

“She was tall. She had strange, brilliant eyes that seemed to change color. She had a smile that put the sun’s energy to shame. And I remember the overwhelming feeling that she had seen things like I had, that she had learned lessons similar to me, that she was prepared . . . ready for the things I was.”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Grace said. “I saw her too and now you know why I had to leave you when I did those years ago.”

It hadn't occurred to me Grace ever had any reasons at all for leaving me. I recall that dreadfully sad moment of being left hanging, not knowing what to think. I remember the feeling of stars exploding in my chest. I remember how scared I was that I would never see her again. I remember how it took her feigned death for me to change my love for her into one meant for friendship. And so, in time, my grief withered and my love grew again – like it always did with me when love was smashed to smithereens. With each end of a relationship, with each of these “love deaths,” I found new direction and new strength and new reasons to trust again. With each end, my personal mires had given rise to a love greater than I had previously known.

“You have finally arrived,” Grace said, seeing the understanding in my eyes.

“Arrived where?” I asked.

“Not to 'where,'” but rather you've arrived to ‘her,’ to the one who is long and sharp.”

“I have?”

“Yes,” Grace said, giving me her warmest smile. “Now, go to her.”

And with that she embraced me close, kissed me on the cheek, and glanced at the top of the hill. I peered in the same direction, eyes squinting through the growing light. The outline of a woman stepped into view. Seeing her for the first time, I felt pure awe wash over me. Her silhouette seemed majestic; her figure, alone, redefined beauty. She stood with her back straight, her chin slightly forward and her head held high.

I walked toward the mysterious woman. I didn't look back, but behind me I could hear Grace sigh wistfully and turn away from me. As I grew higher on the hill, I could hear her steady footsteps sloshing through the soft, wet earth left by the deluge of blood that, by then, had completely receded. The woman above would later tell me how Grace stepped into a small shack painted a deep red, but never came out. Therein, I'm sure Grace vanished to continue her important work elsewhere, to take on more scars.

Grace was gone, but not absent at all in light of all the heartache I had suffered over the years; my history with her and the support she relinquished unto me during those hateful times were still with me . . . and from her I gleaned powerful lessons. Through back-breaking personal reflection, from my heart doing all kinds of crashing and burning, and with Grace's undying presence, I had become more whole than I had ever been.

All this and more, I carried to the woman at the top of the hill.

And then, I was suddenly standing in front of her.

The morning sun filtered through her dark hair. Her eyes glittered and when I stared into them I felt as though I was committing a crime. In one moment her eyes possessed the color of emeralds, in the next they shifted to ice blue, and finally they rested at a deep grey. I was certain she could see right through me. My thoughts were clear. My care and compassion had gathered to a steady calm.

I would be warmed by this woman. I would be embraced by all that she was, long and sharp.