January 19, 2011

such great heists


Strike once. Strike anywhere. Make sure when you do it, you don't dabble in any kind of half-assed warning shots. If you've done it right, you'll see a ghost of a flesh imprint. It takes only a second to turn stark white and then blush once the blood refills. It should hold the blush for a while. If you've done it right, it should keep going straight on to black and blue.

I don't think I did it right. I sat in the corner of the couch, my muscles coiled, ready for the shift. I felt a lightness on the tippy top of my head, an invisible tethered thought bubble buoy.

"What if I get all weepy and girly?" I asked, a few moments prior. He shrugged and smirked.
"I don't know. I'd be interested in seeing that."
"Sicko."

I prodded at the pencil eraser-sized fuschia dot in the crook of my arm. A few hours earlier I watched a woman I had never met before take three vials of blood from my arm. She shimmied the needle around between each vial, frowning at my uncooperative veins. If this sounds like it hurts, that's because it did. The result was a small but defiant welt, not quite a perfect circle.

Inside your body, blood is a dark violet oxgen-deprived hue. Your insides are airtight, which is why your veins appear blue under fair skin. Once it meets the air, it immediately oxidizes, turning that rusty reddish color. Even the small tube of air between the needle and the vial counts.
The purple you see from bruises are blood cells strangled to death with nowhere to go.

Your blood will always tell the truth. In film it's always portrayed as being thicker and stickier than it is really. The thing about fake blood is that when you mix it with real blood, you get a rather attractive salad dressing.

It's much cooler at the surface right now. I don't feel much different but I'm aware that I'm supposed to. I'm beginning to think my blood is lazy, it has no sense of urgency. This all results in poor circulation. So much of our waking conscience relies on these currents, and I'm permanently low tide I think.

I am feeling around for the seams in my own regular conscience. It feels like pumping fake blood. There's soft shock value. It's just as visceral except nobody is injured and there's still the same mess to clean up. It smells like the body bag without the body. Instead of oxygen, it's carrying old film cells and radio fuzz within me. My brain just sighed and looked at the clock. I decide that breathing harder is the solution. That oughta speed up those little pions. Instead I just got dizzy.

This is what it's like to be everyone else at the same time. If being myself wasn't enough I didn't have to be. I could be anyone right now and it wouldn't matter because I would look and sound the same and you would never know the difference. You could never tell, unless you unzipped me and just found a whole lot of fake blood sneaking naps behind the bleachers.
I touched his arm and felt a little better. It's not an anchor but it brought me back. Who knows how long that thought bubble would've survived in the stratosphere?

"How are you?" He asked me, expectantly.
I shrugged and tipped my hand side to side. Comme ci, comme ca.
"Anything?"
"Mhmm... yeah." I wanted to tell the truth but you can't really do that with a heart full of fake blood, now can you. It's not like I was lying, I was just having a difficult time admitting the reality of the present. The reality being that I did not feel like myself and I was pretty sure I may actually not be myself at all. And that it felt kind of good. Everything I wanted to feel had been right in front of my face, just out of range. It moved just as fast as me and always kept it's same distance.

I went into the bathroom just to make sure. The mirror showed me a disguise. She had a diligent circulatory system. She was fast enough. She could do it right this time. Yes. This was good.
I returned to the couch with that new momentum and found the heat beneath his skin that told me just how everything was working. I cornered everything that felt right that I couldn't get to before, sandwiched in between us, let my blood borrow his and struck there, right where my low tide breaks. Right where it'll still show in the morning. Where I could imagine living forever, if forever was the kind of thing that accommodated slow hearts and ignored the rusty nature of reality.

Like real blood, these notions never look the same as when its hiding within you, dark and waiting.

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