Catharsis

TWENTY SIX

Kaman holds my arm outstretched over the side of the gurney. He uses a scalpel and tweezers and a tube that sprays antiseptic to inspect the sores in my arm. Peeling away some of my skin, he takes samples of the hair underneath.

"Initially the virus stays in your blood. Over time it settles in your bones and, as I'm sure you can tell, it really digs itself into your DNA." He goes over the mechanics of how the virus works. I understand less than half of it until he says the words "bone marrow aspiration." That one I recognize.

"Wait. What?"

"I'm going to have to do an aspiration." He dries my arm and unlatches the restraints around me.

I sit up on the edge of the gurney. "Do I even have to ask if you're going to numb me?"

"If I had any numbing agent, which I don't, I wouldn't use it on you anyway," Kaman says.

I nod and try to forget what he just said.

"Now lay on your stomach."

For a split second, I consider running. But I'm too unfeeling about what just happened, so I lay on my stomach and let him strap me down. He pulls the waistband of my shorts down and pushes against the backside of my hip, jabbing his fingers against the bone that juts out there.

"This will hurt," he says and arranges rows of microscope slides on the countertop. "But, as I said earlier, you should try to stay conscious."

My chest and throat tighten. I take a deep breath; and when that doesn't work to calm me down, I take another. Still no luck.

"That's it; just breathe," Kaman says as he washes a cool liquid over the site. He grabs a thick, hollow needle with a plastic end that looks like a screw. Firmly, he holds his finger against a point in my skin and slides the needle in. At first, it's just a really painful shot, then the twisting starts. He pushes and pushes all his strength against the needle, twisting and boring into my bone. I scream as loud as I'm able and bury my face in the blood-splattered sheet. Sweat streaks down my head as I squirm, squirming tenses up into a violent shaking as I go faint. There's a strong pulling sensation, then nothing.

"Aaron?" Emma's whispers wake me up. I'm back in my room, sprawled out on the floor. My finger is still gaping open, but it's beginning to heal, leaving a pale, lumpy scar.

"Aaron! Answer me!"

"I'm fine," I say, lying as usual.

"You sound like hell," Emma says.

I prop myself up. "When did he bring me back?" I ask.

"Just an hour ago maybe."

I lean my back against the wall beside the vent. The moon shines bright enough through the window to reveal that the room has been somewhat cleaned. The smell of vomit is still potent. I wish I could throw bleach in here. I wish I could bathe in bleach. I wish I could drink a whole bottle of bleach.

All that's available is a plastic water bottle next to me. I unscrew the cap and take a swig then pour half the bottle into my hair because this is the height of luxury right now. The cool water rushes over my face and down my shoulders. It soaks my shirt. I'm craving a shower. Hot water. Soap. Anything. Anything at all to get this nastiness off of me.

I hold a hand against my lower back, rubbing it against a gauzy patch that's taped there.

"Are we finally going to talk about getting out of here?" Emma asks.

"Nobody would be safe," I say and squeeze the plastic water bottle, letting it crack in my grasp. It reminds me of the crackle through my spine as I transform. It reminds me of Sammy - she would pick the labels off plastic water bottles. I watch her fingernails dig into the paper and the glue...