Corporeal Nightmares

Comeuppance

A young man hangs over a bed on a trapeze. Only his left leg rests ever so lightly on the unruffled sheets. Both arms are held perpendicular to his torso in plastic braces. Blood has begun to seep through the tightly wrapped cotton bandages on his abdomen. His right leg is missing below the knee.

Constant beeping from two monitors on either side of the bed is the only sound aside from occasional muffled conversations down the hall at the fourth floor nurse's station. The odor of ammonia and formaldehyde seep in from the hallway.

The young man is in little pain because of the slow but regular drip of morphine pumping into his arm but he's conscious; floaty but aware and beginning to remember how he got there. He smiles.

A clock above the flat panel television opposite his bed reads "7:30". Based on light from the window, he's not sure if that's morning or night. It's probably April. Perhaps May by now. The grin grows larger.

Voices are raised down the hall. Not the usual timbre from nurses discussing unruly patients or bawdy gossip. No, these are the sounds of a visitor arriving. After a moment, the steady click-clack of mother's distinctive strut can be heard. A chuckle starts but stops after the waves of agony overcome the opioids coursing through his blood.

In a button-down dress blue as water from Acapulco, she glares from the doorway. In the hot, white fluorescent lights all of the creases of her face squeeze together like a kneaded ball of dough.

"Remmy." Her curly hair moves slightly across the bridge of her nose as she shakes her head disapprovingly. "You've gone too far. And you're laughing about it."

One of the laminate chairs scrapes across the pale white tile. The screech causes him to twist away from the sound. A convulsion shoots across his chest, across his shoulder, and down to his right elbow. That whack on the elbow had been one of the best parts.

When the bolts of torment subside, he opens his eyes. Mother is locked in with him. The agony of seeing her only son doped up in traction plays counter to the rage vibrating in her cheeks. The contrast gets stronger every time.

"Whatever you think you accomplished, it's not worth it." Fists clenched, her jaw trembles. "This is the last time I'm paying for this. Your father had the raw talent to pull off the stunts you're trying." The tears have receded now. "It's worse he's encouraging you. He doesn't come in and sit by your side and watch your amputations." Her laugh is harsh, unrepentant. "But I suppose that's not what really matters to you. The damn hits on your video do. And I'll give you that... marketing's something your brother never got good at."

A quick tap on the morphine release button blots out any resentment or anger towards mother. However much she might claim to understand how times have changed, she's never been through what he has.

"They're done growing all your... replacements." Pulling the suit taut, she stands. "But I think it best you spend some time as you are."

Fear builds. More palpable than when the rocks were rushing up to greet him on the cliff dive in March.

"You'll be starting physical therapy in two weeks. Maybe once you learn to walk without a lung and a leg, I'll pay to have the new ones," she says, voice devoid of compassion, "installed? Is this how the vat-techs say it?"

The click-clack recedes into the usual murmur of the nurses gabbing, then the faint ding of the elevator. The relative silence of the fourth floor bends like invisible bars of a prison as Remmy begins to silently sob through the pain.