This Is Not a Tragedy

23 | Lies & Injustice

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

The day I went to the IVA, there was a long period during which I was alone, sitting in the chair as my blood was drained. It was an hour in when my acute senses alerted me to the closed door. Someone had stopped in front of it. They lingered, and I waited for them to make a move. But nothing happened. After a minute, they just left.

It was strange, but I shrugged it off, looking at the tube of red extending from my arm, then closed my eyes. A familiar smell wafted up my nose. And the mental image of the tube and needle transformed into the image of a different needle.

My arm was smaller. I was five or so, sitting on the hard bed of a room decorated with posters of the Human Body. A woman's hands guided a syringe of red liquid into my vein. My other hand was being held reassuringly by a man whom I knew.

I opened my eyes, wondering if the images I saw were a memory or concoctions born from movies I've seen, perhaps a waking dream. It unsettled me, but I told myself not to worry. Nina was what I should be thinking about.

She awoke on Sunday and stayed at the labs for another day for monitoring. Though the two of us haven't been ones to make much noise, for some reason, the house felt unusually quiet without her. Today, after work, I go straight home instead of stopping by the IVA to see Nina because she's finally been released.

Sergius' car is in the driveway, which means Nina is indeed home. Emina's car is here too.

When I open the front door, Nina is already walking into the foyer to greet me. Looking her over, I see her color is back.

She smiles. "Hi."

"Hey." I close the door. "How are you?"

"I'm better. I... I heard you wanted to stay at the labs, but Sergius made you go home." She's smiling and looks a bit shy.

I just stare.

She looks at me. "You were worried about me?"

I don't know what to say. She's happy I was worried? I guess she feels lonely, and she has been through a lot. "Of course," I reply. But my face is still deadpan, and, after the short response, I immediately head for the stairs.

"Are you okay?"

I stop and look back at her.

"You just seem a bit... I... thought you'd be happy to see me." She glances down and then back at me.

I find myself narrowing my eyes, bothered that she'd think such a thing. Bothered by her confidence. Her face falls. Without giving her a response, I turn around and go to my room, shutting the door behind me. My chest sinks into my mattress, the duvet soft against my cheek as I stare at the threads.

Nina noticed that something's off about me. I can't shake that time at IVA―that lingering person at the door and that scent and that uncertainty if the vision was a memory. It has to be a memory. What else could it be?

It's been days that I've been nagged by it elusively floating through my mind. Nina is back now, and I can't stay like this―she's already suspicious. I need the nagging to end. So I close my eyes, and I dig back, trying to pull the memory from the recesses of my subconscious.

I'm in that doctor's examination room again. A man―my father stands beside a female doctor. I can't see his eyes. He says something to her, but I don't know what. The doctor shakes her head, her blond curls swaying. My father puts his hand on her shoulder, and I have a feeling he's pleading.

He takes my hand. The doctor's syringe is too large. This feels wrong. I bite my lip and squeeze his hand. It hurts. This feels too wrong. Whatever's going into me feels unpleasant and is the color of blood. But I know I was told it isn't. There's a feeling I was told it was to keep me healthy.