A First Chapter, Sort Of

[trickykitty]

"Ouch!" she said.

She rubbed the spot just above her elbow. A scornful furrow appeared on her brow. She wasn't to the point of reproaching me. Not yet, at any rate, but I could hear it coming. It always came.

I held the needle between my thumb and forefinger. I wasn't twirling it, or playing with it, or otherwise meddling with it. Fondling that slender bit of metal between my fingers would have required my attention. It would have required me to ponder the intricacies of the existence of such an object. I would have to be fascinated by the reflective qualities of its sheen. I would feel the rolling pressure of its hard shaft against my skin as forces equalized between every moment of movement. I would be tempted to change my hold on it so that I could reach my index finger up to its tip and feel the change in sensation from dull to sharp as I tested the piercing business end of this wonderful little instrument. I would be reminded of that look as he caressed the knife edge with his palm, knowing what beautiful memories it held and what new memories laid ahead. I would delve deeper and deeper into a world of sensation. Of asphyxiation and rapid heart beat.

No, the needle remained motionless. My attention was elsewhere. My heart beat regularly. There was barely a sense of living. Pure existence. The needle was a tool implemented towards a different goal, an alternative reality being checked for its own dimensions of existence.

"Why did you do that for?" she asked.

I cringed inside. If reminded me of a quote from Bill Hicks: "Watcha readin' fer?" The grammatical structure scraped at me like sandpaper, even if the entire point of the question was to highlight the actual wording. Her sentence was a mismanaged mangle of thoughts. It was her instantaneous reaction as her fight or flight mechanisms sized up the situation.

She asked it in a tone that suggested she was unable to discern my purpose. Most people can't, but she was curious.

"Oh." I paused. "So you are alive after all."

It was a statement, not a question. My eyebrow raised slightly. Now I was curious, not that I wasn't curious before. It was an unconscious facial tick that would have given me away at any good poker table, but real life isn't filled with professional players.

I awaited it. What is wrong with you? That's what most people would say. I say 'say', because it's never a question. It's always a rhetorical question; it's said as a statement of fact. It's one of the worst things I've ever heard a parent say to her child.

Other people require a reason, but not just any reason. They have to hear what will cause them the least cognitive dissonance. They have to assure themselves by assigning blame for their own inability or unwillingness to understand. It's unacceptable to not understand. It's unacceptable for the reality of their world to not fit so securely in their cocoon-wrapped blanket. That would be uncomfortable. That would make them wrong.

She twisted her arm just so and looked at the spot. The needle hadn't broken the skin. She looked back at me as she returned her arm to the couch. I watched the look in her face. She was processing the input I provided. I braced for what was to come.

Then nothing.

She averted her attentions away from me. I know there was a thought. I know she processed something, but whatever the results in her mind, she was satisfied to not announce them. She knew I provided no real response, and especially not one that minimized any cognitive dissonance created by my seemingly riddle-like answer to her query. It meant there was no dissonance. There was no predetermined correct answer for her to have to reconcile in her mind's accounting system.

It was anti-climactic.

I should feel disappointed.

Disappointment would insinuate that I, too, expected a predetermined response. From others, yes. Others don't get me. Others question my sanity, my motives, my reason for existing in their perfectly rolled-up burrito world. The thing to remember about burritos is that if you put too much pressure on the open, top end, the bottom will rip open and splooge all over your pants. Decrease the pressure inside, and the tortilla seal won't break.

She fascinated me. She wasn't like the others. She somehow managed to equalize the pressures between us. No matter what my reason, no matter why I pricked her upper arm with the needle, she simply accepted it. She accepted my curiosity, perhaps even enjoyed it. Other people weren't curious like I was. We got along handsomely.

I turned my attentions to the needle that unconsciously I had already started to roll between my thumb and finger, like a man fingering his cigar.

This really came out of nowhere. I was reading The Handmaid's Tale when the persistent thought came to me, so I grabbed my pen and notebook and began writing. It's really just a bit of word fodder. I don't exactly like it, but I still felt like sharing.

Strangely, I've come across at least two sentiments, one of which is almost word-for-word, in later chapters of The Handmaid's Tale that I had presented here. That's kind of creepy.

In other news, I knew the nurse shouldn't have tried to use that vein to draw my blood the other day. No one ever uses that vein. It's starting to bruise up now. Grr.