by Martin Cid
The man with the white coat kept still for a moment and took the syringe. I couldn’t move my arms held with ropes to a chair. There were three or four more people in the hospital room. I couldn’t either close my eyes or even open my mouth. I tried to keep on thinking about Lorrain and her long hair, on her eyes and her smile. They introduced the syringe slowly and I felt my blood escaping and laughing of me. Doctors had their faces covered with masks. Even when I was a child, I never liked doctors. I used to cry every time I had to go out. ‘Am I ill, mom? If I am not sick, why must I go to the doctor?’ I never found the answer, not in the past, not for now, sure I won’t find it in the future. I observed the room: there was a clock tinkling and making fun of me. ‘Where is my mom, doctor?’
‘She is dead, John.’
I remember her white face in the coffin. Yesterday I was playing with her, now she is dead.
‘We will need more blood, John. Will you be brave? Do it for your mom.’
I am unable to close my eyes, like if there was an invisible artifact keeping them opened. Where are you, Lorraine? Where are your sight and your kisses? Doctors hit me. Again? My father was a good man but he couldn’t put up with the situation. One whiskey more, one day less to stay again with your wife, good man.
‘Blood is blocked.’ Doctors are nervous, now my blood is laughing of them. ‘We will get what we want, John. It will be easy if you relax. We will take the blood with your help or without it.’
Am I dreaming? If you can concentrate enough to the dream, you can even control it, change the space and time… you can be the god and you can play with the pawns as you can determinate. They introduce a new syringe in the other arm. It’s smooth and warm, there’s a clear sky near the clock.
‘Get him sleep! Now!’
I feel the poison in my veins, I feel past and future in one forgotten verb, I feel her face falling into the deepest dream of nothing and everything.
‘Stop the fight, John. Just sleep.’