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.

Setting Fire to a Baby

This is the most recent fire I built. Baby not included.

Language is a gift.

I would set fire to a baby.

Most of us don't understand exactly what this would be to our senses. But some of us do. Those of us wrecked by terrors of war. Those of us repeatedly shaken in half by the violent imagery of some ghastly accident. The witnesses of these colossal horrors ache to scratch these memories from their tarnished brains. The rest of us, however, can barely know the notion of a baby on fire, let alone know the full reality. We don't know the smell of burning flesh. We can't comprehend eyeballs popping and melting from the heat. We would avert our faces from supple, young skin turning to black char. Muscles would burn from bone. Fat would spit and sizzle after it pooled in the back of a tiny skull. And if the fire was hot enough, the bones would crack and wither to dust. And to imagine such things makes most of us uncomfortable . . . to say the least. The simple sentence "I would set fire to a baby" immediately sickens us.

And I know what I am saying when I write this sentence and I mean it with all my heart. With great, unwavering conviction, I agree with setting fire to a baby, but this isn't entirely understandable unless I explain, unless I call attention to things that make sense.

. . . but I won't explain just yet.

For the time being, consider how blanket statements without clarification are considerably flawed. But, more importantly, I dare you to sit with what it means to completely burn an infant to a crisp . . . and then move on to consider my next statement:

So pretty. So deadly. Always the case it seems.

I made my mother a beautiful salad accented with flower petals.

This statement is, probably, relatively innocuous to most folks. Many different kinds of flowers can make a salad beautiful. With a leap of faith I've eaten rose petals before and while they are somewhat bitter, they can dress up a salad something fierce. On the other hand, what if this salad was prepared with foxglove petals? Anyone with a basic knowledge of foxglove likely knows how it can be extremely poisonous.

Foxglove, if ingested, can cause rashes, disorientation, hallucinations, fainting, blurred vision, nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting. And these symptoms are more sedate compared to the ones that are life-threatening. Foxglove can also change your heartbeat. It can slow it down. It can speed it up. It can make your heart muscles contract erratically. To be fair, however, I should mention that extracts from foxglove in the proper amount can be used to manage certain heart conditions. But if taken in the wrong dosage, like eaten from a salad bowl, it can give you a heart attack.

Foxglove can kill you.

So, let me be clear; I do not want to kill my mother with a foxglove salad. That would be reprehensible and twisted! Unfortunately, however, something like this has happened. Upon investigating foxglove poisoning, I found several instances where people have intentionally poisoned their partners. Can you imagine? "Here you go, hun, I made this delightful salad to go with your spaghetti. You'll love it!"

Half dead. Foxglove killer. 

My original statement about making my mother a salad accented by flowers and my subsequent explanation shows how language can easily be misconstrued if no clarifications follow. For those of you who didn't know foxglove was deadly, you might think a concoction of a salad with flower petals for my sweet mother was considerate and endearing. The statement, without the mention of foxglove, wreaks no havoc until our brains put a grave modifier on it.

In simpler terms, this is called jumping to conclusions. People do this all the time, forgetting to ask for clarifications. Why do some of us commit this mistake more than others? What mechanisms or manias give rise to filling in the blanks with unfounded conjecture and knee-jerk emotional responses? More importantly, can critical thinking be taught in a way to give greater rise to asking for clarifications first? I ask because I find myself, for better or for worse, driven to a quiet fury when folks jump to conclusions. I imagine their torture because of it. And, to paint a whole picture, I should also admit that I've had moments when the fury wasn't so quiet. These times are rare, but I have punched walls and smashed inanimate objects after witnessing such perseverations, especially after I've exhibited a colossal amount of patience and provided multitudes of calm, thoughtful clarifications.

So, a question remains:  Why does jumping to conclusions trump the gift of language, our ability to ask for clarifications?

Now, back to burning babies.

Again, I would incinerate a baby . . . but ONLY under the circumstances of creating a funeral pyre to respectfully let go of a loved one or maybe to burn away the presence of a highly-contagious disease. My graphic description of a burning baby above would be true regardless of the intent behind such an act, though, the telling "shamefully" steers the reader to revulsion. I could rewrite my beginning comments to embrace a more sublime atmosphere. I could avoid the description of a baby's eyes popping and melting and replace it with an account of the delicate and pleasing aroma of fresh lavender burning in the fire around the baby. These disparate accounts create different feelings for sure.

Language has great power. This should be self-evident.

What we jump to say and what we choose to say are very different things. Many folks don't think before they speak. As I said above, this mis-step, under certain circumstances, makes my guts hurt with controlled rage and I imagine scenarios where I'm drilling hundreds of sheet-rock screws into the bodies of thoughtless people. Separate from that frothing-at-the-mouth moment, I will note that what we say often gives others a pretty accurate account of who we are as people; it shows our mental fortitude . . . or lack thereof. What we say explains our upbringing. It shows our level of education. It discloses our morals. It can spell out our intent. It colors our character.

And yet, this is only one side of things. When someone says some blanket statement, regardless of what it entails, it doesn't end there. Oftentimes, it begs a question of clarification. In my observations, most folks just leave such unfounded conjecture without confrontation, saying "Oh, that person is crazy" or "That person is ignorant" or "That person isn't worth confronting" and they walk away having done nothing.

What do we make of ourselves if we don't confront people who speak without thinking?

Including myself at some measure, I think we are weak. I think we need to show more bravery when confronting racism, sexism, homophobia, violence, dishonesty and so on. And I'm not just talking about the blatant versions of these social malignancies. Those are obvious and easy to confront. I am, however, talking about the more subtle, institutionalized versions. It's far too easy to blow off, say, inappropriate touching when I think such an act should be "whacked in the teeth with a fucking wrench." Or, in another instance, it has become rote for many of us to look the other way when someone tells a white lie, but I sometimes am compelled to confront such a "mild" dishonesty with fierce fact finding and confrontation.

We also have a tendency to be lazy. It takes more work for us to vie for clarification, than it does to simply make shit up, fill in the blank, and believe whatever we want. For the sake of cognitive continuity our brains do this all the time as a normal process, but is being lazy the only reason for letting this mechanism go wild? If so, how did being lazy superseded our prominent faculty to ask a few respectful questions to understand another person's comments?

Steering back to my main concern, I simply claim loose-lipped, slacker-brained statements create havoc, but they only carry as much dynamism as we allow. I attest, we must confront thoughtless statements with grace and courage so as to point the offender in the right direction instead of allowing them too much room to justify their poor behavior. We cannot and should not rest on the notion that someone else will confront these mistakes, that the offender is somehow insufferable and should be ignored.

But allow me to bring this diatribe down a few notches. My original examples of language going wrong (burning a baby and fixing a foxglove salad) are extreme indeed. Without fail, gross and negligent examples of language should be challenged, but a similar treatment should also be diligently administered in the presence of comments seemingly innocuous in nature.

A salad for your thoughts?

And . . . all it takes is one simple inquiry:  What do you mean by that?

Like many of you, I've had way too many experiences in my life where folks easily jump to conclusions. They make up meanings of what others say and pass judgment long before the original speaker has a chance to explain their verbiage.

Anyway, I could bitch and moan about lazy language until you'll be inspired to mail me a cardboard box of vomit comprised of hot dogs and grape juice, but I won't. Instead, I'll just repeat something more important and something slightly more to the point and palatable.

Language is a gift.

Treat it as such and I won't be compelled to incinerate your baby while I serve you a salad made of foxglove petals.