Dirt

The Brain Surgeon

    I gawked at him from afar without saying a word, probably looking incredibly stupid with my mouth agape and eyes widened; usually I was able to maintain quite a bit of composure in the face of surprise but this time seemed to be an exception.
    With a half busted lip  and dried blood dripping from it down to his chest he swivelled slightly to take note of the state of his trailer, having limited vision due to one eye being nearly swollen shut he spoke out hoarsely, “Wow, the place looks great!” with an unsightly smile.
    Still frozen to the spot I attempted to ask what was clearly on my mind without seeming completely and utterly appalled, “What the hell happened!?” I failed to make myself sound composed even in the slightest. I allowed my eyes to wander about his body, taking note of bruises coming into formation in the discolouration of his skin as well as the darkened bloodstains in his clothes that could very well belong to him, or someone else which concerned me much less.
    “Listen, before you go and get your panties in a knot, it’s nothing serious, okay? Just a little scuffle about some business stuff, you know how it is.” He shrugged before making his way over to the couch with a slight limp.
    “Actually, no, I don’t know how it is, please enlighten me.” I scoffed, feeling uncertain as to whether I felt scared for his wellbeing or angry over his inability to take care of himself.
    He leaned back on the cigarette-burnt plaid sofa with an exasperated sigh the likes of a teenager being told to clean their room, “Just get off my back about it, geez. I have enough mental anguish to deal with without you wanting to know who I’ve killed and why.” Then he laughed in a manner that made me uncertain as to whether this was a joke or not. “Would you mind grabbing me a beer, sugar?”
    I couldn’t bring myself to respond immediately and instead sought out which bloodstains in fact belonged to Trevor, specifically the ones on his left leg, the one causing his limp. “What happened to your leg?” I asked, attempting to sound less judgemental even though I was indeed scrutinizing him with the judgement of a thousand army lieutenants.
    “Nothing too serious. There may or may not be a bullet lodged somewhere in there though.” He laughed light-heartedly as though a bullet may have been a splinter and a leg might have been a toe. My immediate reaction was to call an ambulance, something that remained embedded into my mind from a life that did not suit a man who had committed armed robbery and likely murder, or at least attempted murder, within the past 24 hours.
    I made my way towards the fridge, “I’ll get you your beer, but you have to take your pants off.” Somehow I managed to keep the tone of my voice serious, maybe it was the severity of the situation that only I seemed to be able to perceive.
    “Wow, you really do drive a hard bargain.” Trevor stated sarcastically, struggling to wriggle out of his sweatpants and wincing in discomfort.
    Not only did I grab a can beer, but I also picked up the bottle of vodka I had been using to clean. “Take this, hold it to your eye.” I placed the cold can forcefully to his chest. “This is going to hut a bit, or a lot, but it’s better than infection so toughen the fuck up.”
    “Please don’t tell me you’re doing this now,” he rolled his eyes back into his head, “I’ll take care of it sooner or later, how do you think I’ve stayed alive this long, eh?” His pleading only tempted me further, I had no pity for what I knew I was about to do, it was for his own good and I knew he wouldn’t fight me.
    I dropped to my knees to assess the hole in his thigh, it was incredibly neat in contrast to the barbaric nature I associated with guns, perfectly round and perfectly red in colour. “I told you to put the can on your face, it’ll reduce the swelling.” I snapped at him, for whatever strange reason I had had it with his antics, I felt an odd combination of compassion and concern that could only manifest itself through deep frustration.
    Trevor lifted the beer to his face with excessive exaggeration, pretending that it weighed an incredible amount. “That’s a waste of good vodka you know.” He spouted with exasperation.
    “You know what, you’re right, drink some and it won’t hurt as much when I dig this bullet out of your leg.” I held out the bottle to him with a bit more enthusiasm than I should have. He gave me a look of total and utter disgust before guzzling down a small portion of the bottle with inhuman tolerance to the liquor.
    “I cannot believe I’m letting you fucking do this.” He took in a deep breath and wiped away the vodka that had leaked from his mouth. “Do you even know what you’re fucking doing?”
    “I’ve watched enough medical shows to be a brain surgeon by now, trust me.” I half-smiled at him and he half-smiled at me back as though we might have been playing a game of Operation whilst drinking amongst friends.
    “Knives are in the drawer to the right, good luck sugar.” He chuckled, taking another swig of alcohol and appearing far too relaxed considering circumstance.
    I was beginning to believe that I was more nervous than he, the man about to undergo what might as well have been minor surgery. I wondered to myself if I had possibly bit off a bit more than I could chew, and if the spurt of courage I had felt no longer had the adrenaline available to continue to support it.
    The knives being harboured in the pull-out drawer were not cutlery, they were a variety of knives of different shapes and sizes all covered in grime from years of use and neglect. It probably took me longer to clean my tool of choice than it would have in fact taken to perform brain surgery; a combination of how filthy it was and how frivolous I wanted to be with my sterilization.
    Trevor mocked me as I prepared myself, a gesture that made me feel slightly more at ease about the situation at hand but that made me feel increasingly self conscious about my surgical skills. “Give me some of that vodka.” I stated, “I don’t work well under pressure.” Then I let out a laugh, trying to expel some of my fear along with it.
    “That’s what I’m talking about! Let’s get this shit done.” He pressed the bottle opening to my mouth so that I could drink my liquid courage. I felt as surge of determination, as one often does after a shot of liquor, even know they know very well that it takes more than that to in fact influence your brain, and even though I knew that this was a placebo effect I would take what I could get.
    The knife I had chosen was the closest thing to a butter knife I could have found, the edge had been dulled from questionable usage and the blade was in need of sharpening. I made sure to choose something a dull as possible so as not to cause any unnecessary damage and simply pry out the bullet as gently as I could.
    I hadn’t been lying when I told him I had indeed watched enough medical shows to be a brain surgeon. I knew almost everything there was to know about first aid but the only thing that was lacking was practice, and I knew that surgery wasn’t meant to be a learning curve.
    Before I managed to fall victim to my own cowardice once again I dropped to the ground and used the arm of the sofa to stable my shaking hands. It wasn’t much help, but it was enough to make sure no amputations were about to be performed accidentally. He laughed at me as I tried to steady myself, “You should see your face right now.”
    Feeling as though I were about to throw up my entire digestive system I gradually lowered the knife towards the open wound. I decided to myself that the best possible method would be the same as ripping off an old bandaid, as quickly as possible so as not to prolong the pain.
    “Are you ready? I’m going to count to three.” I told him, knowing that I would be digging the knife into his leg on one rather than three, an old tactic used by the nurses at my elementary school whilst giving out flu shots to catch the child off guard so that they don’t flinch and ruin the injection. Needless to say I knew their tricks after a year or two and the ploy was no longer effective on me.
    “Are you ready? You look like you’re about to pass out.” He snickered.
    “Okay, one…” I swiftly slid the tip of the knife into the bullet hole with as much precision as was humanly possible for me. I could feel the friction between two metals seconds later as Trevor yelled profanities and nearly ripped the remaining stuffing from the couch with clenches fists. I assured myself with absolute certainty that I had enough leverage to pry the bullet out in a clean and neat fashion before carefully arranging the knife at an angle and prying it out.
    The whole procedure was too grotesque to bear though I somehow managed to bear it anyways; adrenaline can do strange things to the human body. Luckily I was able to hold my breakfast of day old cheeseburgers down and I mentally thanked whatever divine force had graced me with little to no gag reflex.
    Before Trevor had the chance to move a muscle I used the edge of my dress, the only thing I trusted was clean in the trailer, and poured vodka on it to disinfect the wound. I was once again subjected to an abundance of profanities as I padded him with the vodka soaked material, though this time I was able to laugh at them with much relief. “Don’t be a baby, it’s just a gaping hole in your muscle tissue.” I taunted.