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DISFIGURED
COMPANION
"My Mother Was A Seamstress" by Erik Gist
The longer Reginald McDonald thought about his situation, the more he was going to have to take drastic measures. If Mary couldn’t see what he did, then it was time for change. Leaving her would be too easy. That was part of the problem. Reginald hadn’t been married long, only three years, but it was long enough for him to understand it wasn’t going to work. Not anymore. Not with the way things were. All the signs were there. They’d grown apart after three years, whether she believed it or not. That was the other problem. Mary didn’t want to believe they were better off without each other. They’d talked about it, but she still loved him, claimed he had something special inside. It made Reginald sick when she said things like that. If he could get her—in some way—to despise him, she’d have no choice but to agree and leave. He should’ve never gotten married. That was the problem with marriage. Reginald supposed it was the idea of marriage that drew people to it: the fantasy, the love. Once the vows were taken, however, it was a completely different story. Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Anything you say dear. Reginald thought the word ‘dear’ was a substitute for ‘mother.’ He might as well be living at home still. “What are you, my fuckin’ mother?” he said to Mary. “Make sure you take the garbage out, sweetheart.” ‘Sweetheart,’ too, was supposed to make him an obedient, groveling child. Who did Mary think she was, a drill sergeant?
Marriage didn’t have benefits, not for Reggy.
He couldn’t be himself anymore.
Mary treated him like a child.
He was tired of it. Marriage
had given Mary the right to order Reginald around whenever she wanted,
and all Reggy got out of it was less sex and more chores.
Was it worth it to walk around with his tail between his legs,
nodding at everything she said? Yes,
dear. Of course, dear.
Just as soon as I build this castle for you, dear, take
out the garbage, and finish writing your name in cursive across the sky,
dear. Let me slay a few
dragons first, too, while I’m at it.
Hold on, I have to hurry across this burning bridge!
We’re being attacked by aliens!
He’d used several cruel approaches already, trying to get Mary to despise him, but every plan had backfired. Coming home drunk had been his first attempt. She didn’t believe in drinking, but when he’d come staggering through the door all Mary did was frown. “Is this what you want to do now, Reggy? Start drinking?”
“You’re goddamn right it
is!” he lashed out like a demon.
He wavered tipsy in the doorway, face flushed with alcohol, black
sweaty hair hanging in his dark eyes.
“You don’t like it, you can go live with your goddamn
mother!” All Mary did was shrug. “Just as long as you don’t leave the beer bottles lying around, Reggy. I don’t want to have to clean up after you.” At first, he thought this was all he had to do: leave the bottles lying around for her to pick-up. But it grew tiresome, and he wasn’t really a drinking man anyway. His own messes and waking up with a hangover were enough to make him realize he’d have to take a different approach. He could cheat on her, maybe. If she came home and found him in bed with another woman, that would make her move out, wouldn’t it? Reginald didn’t have it in his heart to be unfaithful, despite his other cruelties. He wasn’t made that way. He’d never cheated on a girl in his life. At times, he would insult Mary, tell her she was fat, a crybaby, and then watch her weep. It gave him satisfaction to know he could make her cry. You can be a brutal bastard at times, he thought. Part of him was glad she was crying, knowing he could damage her that way. Sometimes, he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her. He had to find a way to keep himself from seeing her. He needed to be alone. He hated her. Being an ass was his way of reminding Mary they needed a divorce. But he had something now. An idea, something that would get her to leave, and there would be no doubt about his plan. Obviously, getting drunk and cursing wouldn’t do it. Cheating wasn’t in his blood, and he wasn’t going to move out of his own house. He’d built his own business from the ground up. The business had paid for the house. Mary had always told him how handsome he was, how attracted she was to him, so Reginald thought if he cut off one of his appendages, she’d think him a hideous monster, and she’d have no choice but to leave. The more he thought about it, the more the idea inspired him. In fact, he was convinced his idea could not fail. If he disfigured his body, she’d have no choice but to leave. How could she stay with someone who couldn’t walk, who hobbled around like a circus freak, or put their clothes on with one arm? And besides, it was only a hand maybe, a foot. He could live without it. It would be worth it, wouldn’t it? To have Mary gone? The thought made him smile. Anything was worth it. If it got Mary to leave, it would be worth it.
So, you’ll hobble a little, he thought, giggling. Who
cares? People live without
appendages. True, people lived without appendages. They lived without wives as well. If he did this carefully, he’d have her out of the house by the end of the week, a month at the latest. That was his plan.
The house at * Their marriage and their love for each other had been simple. They’d met at a party between friends. The physical attraction was there, and as the night wore on, they’d talked on countless subjects. Everyone else at the party seemed to disappear, locked in the shadows. Reginald and Mary talked throughout the night and into the next day. After Mary gave him her phone number, they began seeing each other regularly: movies, dinner (Mary liked cartoons, Walt Disney movies. He should’ve known then. He hated Walt Disney movies). They took long walks together. It was perfectly romantic. Eventually, marriage seemed the next step. He proposed to her at the park, getting down on his knee because he believed in tradition. He opened a small gray jewelry box with a beautiful diamond ring inside. Mary began to cry. She put her hands to her face. She nodded through her tears and said yes.
It began during the honeymoon, the aftermath of all good things,
the sign of bad things to come. Reginald
was enjoying his time alone, the cruise he’d paid for.
Mary had slept in. They
did not make love. He woke
early as Mary snored lightly, and he walked around the boat, taking
pictures of the So, there he was on the ship, taking pictures by himself, masturbating in the bathroom because she was too afraid to make love, and he was too horny to ignore it, enjoying a vacation he should’ve booked for himself. All the time waiting to make love to her, the courtship, and this was what he got in return! On their first night together, Reggy tried being intimate, but she’d fallen asleep, uninterested. He felt like killing her. He got dressed, went to the lounge, and watched the band play. He had a few drinks. This is my honeymoon, he’d thought. All by myself. It was the first time Reginald thought about cheating on his wife because he sat in the lounge, and a girl fingered her cocktail glass at the bar, looking in his direction. It would be sweet justice, he thought. The thought made him giggle.
The best sex I ever had was on my
honeymoon, and it wasn’t with my wife. A-yuk, a-yuk, a yuk. He must seem like the only person on the ship who wasn’t married. He’d sat by himself, wide awake, and watched the band play. Some songs were familiar. They’d played something by Prince, or The Artist Formerly Known As…Who the hell would ever say, “Hey, do you have that album by The Artist Formerly Known As Prince?” He enjoyed his honeymoon, but only when he was by himself, which seemed ironic. When he was with Mary, and they were eating, he sat and resented her, wanted to pluck her eyes out while she smiled, that goddamn naïve look on her face, and her saying she was having a splendid time. “Surprised you acknowledged it,” he’d said, when they were having dinner. “It’s going by a little fast because you’re sleeping all the time, isn’t it?” “Reginald, are you angry with me?” “Just forget it.” The funny thing was he loved her. Mary was a good-natured girl. Her heart was pure. She was a bit naïve, though, because she’d had a sheltered childhood. Maybe that’s what eventually drove him away, ripped the marriage apart because she went through life on naiveté and Dramamine, and didn’t enjoy sex at all. Jesus, Reginald thought, why had he asked her to marry him? But she was a sweet girl. She always seemed to be smiling, and he liked that. At times, her smile struck nerve endings he didn’t know he had. How could a person smile like that all the time? It drove him crazy trying to figure it out. Eventually, the smile wasn’t enough, though, her good-natured spirit. Reginald and Mary were as different as black and white. It was all Reggy could see anymore. All they had were differences. She wanted to go to church; he didn’t know if he believed in God. She watched nothing but cartoons and Walt Disney movies. Reggy liked racy, rated R programs. Reggy wanted lustful, steamy, hour-long sex. Mary would hardly stick her tongue in his mouth. Well, it was about all he could take! They had to call it quits, and if she wasn’t going to move out, he’d take matters into his own hands! He was trying to see both their futures. They still had a chance to salvage the rest of their lives. They could be happy, but only if they split. “I want us to be happy,” he told Mary once. “I don’t want us to regret what’s going to happen down the road. I don’t want us to look at each other and hate each other for what’s happened. Thinking we could’ve done this or that, or resent each other for doing whatever. It’s not right. It’s not healthy.” He understood his words perhaps better than she did. He was the only one listening, the only one who understood. Mary did not heed his words or care to listen. She was happy. How, he didn’t know. She loved him, loved being married, and that was that. He couldn’t get through to her. Until now. He had the solution. He didn’t care about amputation. What made him think about his foot—and that it would be enough—was Mary’s own fetish. She thought feet were the most adorable parts of the human body. If he rid himself of this particular appendage, she’d be mortified, disgusted, repulsed. She’d pack her bags and move out. He was out in the garage now, and the fear settled in. He believed strongly enough in his marriage to know the measures he had to take. But did he have the guts to go through with it? He believed he did. And what about the pain? What about afterward? How would he explain what happened?
Uh…honey,
somehow that goddamn saw fell right out of my hand and just started
gnawing at my ankle. I
didn’t know how to stop the bastard.
Don’t bother calling a doctor.
We’ll take care of it here.
To hell with the consequences, he thought. He wasn’t worried about it now. He wanted to make Mary leave, and he would do whatever he could to make that happen. He took up the Skilsaw. He looked closely at the black letters on the silver machine. The tool looked like some hybrid wolverine turned mechanical.
This is the jaws of life, he
thought. Or the jaws of
death. This is what the
future holds. It looked like something out of a Transformer cartoon, some maniacal machine, Pac-Man with rabies. Reginald took up the saw, plugged it in, and put his foot on the counter, balancing as best he could with the other. This is my body, he thought. I bet no artist cared enough about his work to do this. I bet no one believes like I do. Van Gogh doesn’t count. He said a silent prayer, looked to the heavens, and closed his eyes. He pressed his index finger to the trigger and the blade whirled, loudly, to life. “For freedom,” he said, aloud. “For the unbounded redemption of man and his freedom.” Clenching his teeth, he put the saw to his ankle and pushed the blade in. Immediate fire and pain ripped through his flesh. Why hadn’t he had a few drinks first? That would’ve numbed the pain at least. Did he realize he could die if he weren’t given proper medical attention? Still, he was undaunted. He kept the saw applied to his ankle. Blood and bone, like confetti, exploded around him, showering his face and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. Blood splattered through the garage. Reginald opened his mouth and wailed in agony. He let his finger off the trigger, put the saw down, not hearing it whir to a stop. The pain was a din of sirens. His foot was no longer a part of his body. He opened his eyes, looking at it, a separate appurtenance, something that belonged now—like an alien—to something else. He could not believe he had the mind-set and willpower to do what he just did. He was handicapped. He could now park at the closest spot at any Wal-Mart or grocery store. His foot lay, white and bleeding, on the surface of the workbench. It didn’t even look like a foot to him now. Already, it was pasty white, like the papier-mâché structures he’d built as a kid. His thoughts screamed in agony and horror! Was he going to bleed to death? He could not paste his foot back together. He needed some other means of provision. He hopped about, a crazed lunatic hoping for a cure, a simple remedy. He needed a blowtorch, something to staunch the deathly flow of blood gushing from the wound. Napkins and towels wouldn’t do it. He had succeeded only in killing himself, he realized. His route to freedom had ended in death.
“MARY!” he shrieked.
“OH GOD, MARY! HELP ME!” He had to find something fast, something to staunch the flow. How come he hadn’t thought of this before? Perhaps he would bleed to death. He looked down at his leg. A ragged, torn, and splintered ankle shrieked at him. Blood poured from the wound in a steady flow, seeming not like blood at all. Blackness came from all sides. He was suddenly light-headed. He was going to pass out. He swooned. Mary came in through the garage door. He swept his separated ankle onto the floor before she noticed. Would they believe it, if he told them he’d dropped the saw on what was—ironically—a naked foot, when his other still had a shoe on? He didn’t have time to acknowledge any of this. Mary was screaming in hysterics. The blackness gathered thick, congealing around Reginald’s head. He slipped into unconsciousness and hit the floor. * When he awoke, he was in the hospital. Mary was by his side, holding his hand. He didn’t feel his foot or any pain, but he felt strange. Of course, they’d drugged him. He didn’t realize until now what would happen. Would they commit him, put him in an institution? That would be perfect, he thought. That would be the perfect thing after all he’d done. For some reason, he felt a wave, a surge of unequivocal love for Mary. He didn’t want anyone else by his side then. “You’re going to be all right,” Mary said. Her voice came from limbo. Was she crying? He couldn’t tell. The lights and the terrible smell of the hospital were all he knew. “They couldn’t reattach the foot because of the damage. The doctor says you’ll be able to leave in a couple of days, though. He said accidents happen like this all the time. Power tools are the worst. People think they have them under control, they work with them with confidence, and the next thing you know…” He wasn’t hearing any of this. That was what he told himself. By God! What had he done? He squeezed her hand. She said something else, but he didn’t hear. He lapsed into unconsciousness again. * When he went home, he couldn’t believe it. How had he not been committed? Did they honestly think he’d made a simple mistake? How did that explain his naked ankle? Did most people walk into their garage with one shoe off and one shoe on? Maybe they wouldn’t believe someone would deliberately sever their own appendages. Whatever the reason, he was home now in bed. He looked at the geese in the frame to the side of the mirror. He looked at the pictures of Mary’s family atop the dresser. She was still here. She was helping him. He’d have to use a crutch for a while, and then he might be able to live a normal life with an artificial foot, the doctor had told him. Reginald was in dreamland. He was listening, but not hearing the words. Could it be his life had not changed at all? Perhaps she loved him more than he realized. She came in, lovingly, with a bowl of soup. She was wearing a white sweater with her black hair tied up, green eyes smiling at him. She was pretty, but it wasn’t enough to save him. The smile was easily forced, he saw. She was struggling with the idea of him living without his precious foot. Maybe he’d struck a chord after all. “Doctor says you’ll be up and ready to go in no time,” she said. She acted as if it were a simple cold or the flu. “Here, have some of this. You look pale. Get your strength back.” He looked at her as if he hadn’t heard. The soup was nothing to him, another pain to endure. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Surprising himself, he said, “Why don’t you just go away?” She looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “What do you mean?” “You know damn well what I mean,” he said. “What’s it gonna take to get rid of you?” Her head twitched. She heard what he’d said, then quickly put it out of her mind. She did not heed a word. “Eat some soup,” Mary said, filling the spoon with vegetables. She put it to his lips. “Goddamnit,” he said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? This is ridiculous! We can’t go on like this! I don’t want to go on like this! Don’t you know when you’re not wanted? Why don’t you do something special with your life, find someone who makes a difference, makes you happy? Goddamnit!” Mary winced, holding the spoon in mid-air. She put it back in the bowl and started to cry. Reginald wanted to smack the bowl out of her hands, but watching her cry was satisfaction enough. He felt his ears burning, his face turning red. Ah, the bliss of anger! His heart was beating fast. “Just leave me alone, will you, Mary? I can’t stand the fucking sight of you.” Her sobs were quiet, another thing he despised: she cried quietly, not making a sound. She wiped tears from her eyes. She set the bowl on the nightstand beside him, then got up and left. She had no intentions of leaving, never had. His amputated foot meant nothing to her. * Through the next few weeks, he began to recuperate. The doctors had tried to save his foot, but the damage had been extensive. Mary left him alone, and Reginald hobbled about the house with a cane. They could get him a prosthetic foot to help him walk easier, but he would always have the limp. He wasn’t thinking about this now. He welcomed the idea of making life more difficult for himself. Hobbling reminded him of his dispassion for his wife.
“You don’t know it, Reginald,” Mary said once.
“But you need me. We
need each other. I know you
think you want to be alone, but we both know it’s not good for you.
It’s not good for us.” This angered him more. Time would tell, he thought. * In the night, as he lay staring at the ceiling, he realized he’d have to do more. Mary would not leave him. His foot felt as if it were a part of his body still, even though he knew it wasn’t there. Yes, there was more he’d have to do. He thought at times of beating her. She once told him if a man beat her, she wouldn’t be able to stay. It would be reason enough for her to leave. But like sleeping with someone else, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That left no other choice. His foot was one thing, but what if he permanently scarred his body, put a clean razor blade to his face, for example, and sliced his features off? She’d have to leave him then, wouldn’t she? What about his other foot or an entire leg? The opportunities were endless. Maybe his ears? He could play the role of the famous artist. What could he do that would make Mary leave? The idea puzzled him. He felt some force was working against him. No matter what he did, it would only prove Mary’s devotion. If she had a mission, a will of her own, it was to prove he needed her, that she was supposed to be in his life. Nothing on Earth would change that. Reginald was determined, however. He wasn’t about to give up. His mission, much like Mary’s, was to make sure he proved his worth, his worthlessness. She would see him as he really was. She’d have no choice. Sooner or later, she’d have to leave. God or no God. Love without song. Mary would see the light. Reginald was not a man worth spending time with. Reginald must be abandoned. Sooner or later, she would have to leave. Sooner or later, she would see the truth. * He had another idea. If she wouldn’t leave after he cut off his foot, maybe he could scar himself some other way. Maybe he didn’t have to sever appendages at all! He would write a message to Mary on his body, something hateful she would see every time she looked at him. If she saw something on his chest, or better yet—on his face—she wouldn’t be able to look at him, let alone want to be with him. What was the best thing he could do? ‘I hate Mary,’ was too simple. Maybe he could carve a pentagram on his chest, something diabolical, evil. He’d never been one to believe in hell or demons. He didn’t even believe in God. But he knew Mary did. She didn’t go to church every Sunday, but she found solace in the Bible, even prayer. He needed something that would scar her brain forever. He laughed. The idea of putting a girl’s name on his chest appealed to him as well, a name other than Mary’s. He could see the humor in that. “This is my house, and I’m not leaving!” he said. Reginald hobbled his way to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and peeked inside. He found a few stray razor blades lying next to a can of deodorant. He picked one up. He knew the pain would be intense, nothing at all like his foot had been. A razor blade was a perfectly sharp instrument, providing the cleanest cut. In that, he was safest. He took a deep breath, put the blade to his chest, and began to carve the letter M. Blood and hot, wiry pain were instantaneous. He’d have to be a warrior to keep this up. He’d never thought of self-mutilation before, but he was holding up pretty well under the circumstances. Blood quickly covered the hand he wrote with. He’d better stand in the tub before he got blood all over the place, he thought. His chest was already an electric current of heat and searing pain. Something about it made it satisfying. Didn’t the Lord help those who helped themselves? If that were the case, he was sure to be rewarded! He stepped into the tub to finish the message. The M was finished, and he moved to the letter A. Blood was everywhere, on his hand and forearm. His chest was a blanket of gore and pulsing, throbbing fire. Spidery trails of blood meandered down his chest, his waist, his knees, and covered his feet. It was a task to spell, to write upside down, and backwards at that, and he grew faint at times. He must be losing a lot of blood, and he had to make sure he cut deep enough to leave a scar. In some miraculous way, he finished what he wanted without passing out. He felt light-headed. The pain in his chest was enormous. The worse part was yet to come. He turned the cold water on. He let it beat on his chest, cleaning the blood off. Somehow, this was more painful than the arduous task of cutting himself, but the water was cold; it had a way of numbing the pain. On his chest, he wrote, Mary made me do this. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around his chest. The thought of needing stitches hadn’t occurred to him. What would they say when they saw the message? After the situation with his foot, questions would arise. A part of him was still surprised he hadn’t been committed to an asylum. Maybe that would come in time. The light-headedness began to take over. He was going to faint and soon realized he was. His legs gave out. He crumpled to the ground, but not before cracking his head on the edge of the bathroom sink. * Mary was standing over him. He was on the couch and saw the world coming together, the living room. A sudden shriek of pain lanced over his eye where he must’ve collided with the sink. Then he realized the pain in his chest, like live wires embedded in fire. How must this look, he thought, lying on the couch without a foot, a knot rising on his head, and the bloody message scratched into his flesh? “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Mary asked. He looked at her vacantly, as if she weren’t there. “Isn’t it obvious?” She didn’t reply. Maybe it was finally sinking in. Maybe it was working now, he realized. “I got the bleeding to stop,” she told him. “But I don’t think you should move.” He looked down and noticed she’d gauzed him up pretty well. His entire chest was wrapped in bandages. “I want you to stop doing this to yourself,” Mary said. “Please. If you don’t, we’ll have to put you in a hospital, so that you don’t hurt yourself. Do you understand me, Reggy?” “If you’d just pack your bags and go, I wouldn’t have to keep doing this to myself. Do you understand that, Mary?” “I can’t leave you alone now. You’re dangerous to yourself.” He was weak. Anger rose inside. He wanted to reach up and slap her. “Please,” she said. Her green eyes pleaded with him, a curl of dark hair falling over her eye. Mary was beautiful, but it was something he could live without. “Please don’t do this anymore.” She looked frightened now, the look in her eye. She was scared for him. Obviously, you didn’t mutilate your body without something going wrong upstairs. But he felt fine. Except for the headache and the searing in his chest, he didn’t feel insane. “Would you like to watch some t.v.?” she asked. He looked at her for a long time. “I want you to go away,” he said, quietly. “Okay.” “Permanently,” he corrected himself. She gave him a lopsided grin. He’d never wanted to slap her more in his life. * Reginald was worried. If he did more harm to his body, what might she do then? Would she have him put away? She couldn’t be serious. Maybe she was trying to prevent him from mutilating himself further. And if he did, how would he be able to enjoy his life? The cost was high. That was what he told himself. It would be worth it to be blind, to be severed, literally cut in half, if that were the case. As long as he could get her out of his life, the smallest trivialities didn’t matter. Another thought swept through him. He could sever his tongue, cut out his eyeballs. That would have to do the job. It might still be enough where he wouldn’t need a doctor. The foot was one thing, but this would be something else altogether. He could make himself go blind, sever his tongue. That was exactly what he would do. * Mary was at work. She wouldn’t be home for another hour. If he jabbed an ice pick into his eye too far, he might kill himself. He’d have to be careful. Perhaps he could burn them. That seemed a suitable idea. He could do the same to his tongue once he cut it in half. Then, if he had the strength, he could cut off one of his arms, go into the garage and put his arm into the band-saw. That would have to do it, he thought. He was running out of ideas. Reginald got up with the help of the cane and hobbled into the kitchen. He looked for a pack of matches and found some in a kitchen drawer. He’d better do the tongue first, he thought. That way, he could still see what he was doing. He had a welder in the garage. He could cauterize himself, saving a trip to the hospital, no questions asked. He’d just have to endure the pain, if the pain didn’t send him into shock. He pulled the scissors out of the knife rack, the ones they used to cut fat off the chicken. He grabbed a candle from another drawer, put it in a candleholder, and lit the wick. He grabbed the scissors, bent over the sink, and stuck his tongue out as far as it would go. He put the scissors to the edge of his tongue, braced himself, and closed his eyes. Savagely, he snapped the handles of the scissors together. A blinding light of pain exploded into his brain. The scissors weren’t as sharp as he’d thought. Part of his tongue still dangled from his mouth. He hadn’t severed it completely. Blood poured over his lip, down his chin, and into the sink. He jumped up and down. A siren wailed in his mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes. He kept his mouth open, his tongue dangling stupidly from his maw. He put the scissors to it again and snapped the scissors together. His tongue, red and plump, plopped into the sink like a skinned mouse. Blood poured into the sink. Reginald started screaming. He thought about the candle and put his tongue to it, keeping his mouth wide, feeling another, different pain wail through his head. He shrieked hellishly and gagged at the same time. What the hell had he done to himself? The madness of the situation was starting to sink in, but it didn’t outrun the will he had. Reginald ran out into the garage with blistering pain and blood spilling from his mouth. He got the welder going. He set the torch off to the side. He had to do it all now in one shot. It as the only way. He couldn’t take individual steps anymore. He started the band-saw, pin-pricks of light going on and off in front of his eyes. It was amazing he hadn’t gone into shock yet. How come he hadn’t passed out? Perhaps he was growing more tolerant with each macabre experience. His head was ablaze with fire and pain. With the band saw whirring to life, he stuck his left arm in up to the elbow. The saw ripped into his flesh, tugging him further into the destructive blade. Flesh pelted the air. Blood splashed his face and chest. Fragments of bone sporadically hit him like pellets. Another tidal wave of pain exploded through his body. Sickness came, but willed it away… He grabbed the welder with his good arm and applied it to the wound. Pain and agony ripped through his body, so much pain, so much intensity, he was amazed he was still cognizant. He knew he must go into shock, somehow, become traumatized. He could feel it coming on. His arm hissed and cooked in the welder’s bright blue flame. The smell of boiling blood and burning flesh rose to his face in a black cloud of smoke. His heart raced, running with maddening speed in his chest. He still had more to do. He fought the fainting spell. Mentally—like a miracle—he grew stronger than his lack of blood, the titanic wail of pain, forcing unconsciousness to take a time out, if only for a few seconds… In another lunatic breath, he grabbed the welder and applied it to his eyes, making sure he kept them open. After the heat, the searing voltage of more pain, Reginald saw a blinding red light, then a blinding white light, then the permanent darkness of blindness. This congealed. It came together around him and awoke a new level of horror to his existence. He had a strange realization about life in those moments. Then the darkness was not only behind his burning, melting lids, but in his brain, too. For a moment, the sirens came to an end. He gathered speed, moving into another realm of nightmare. He didn’t die, but he was traveling through a hellish existence he hadn’t thought about before. When he woke up, he would find out what that was…
* When he awoke, terror engulfed him. He knew he was awake, but he couldn’t see anything. He must be dreaming. He could feel the bed he was lying on. He heard strange voices around him. When Reginald tried to speak, a terrible sound came out of his throat: “Gaaaaaaa!” The voices stopped. A hand touched his good arm, soft, caressing. Mary. He didn’t feel any pain now, only an overwhelming numbness. He was in the hospital, he realized. They had pumped him full of drugs. “Don’t talk,” the darkness that was Mary said. “He’ll need some time here to get well,” another voice said. A male. A doctor? “We’ll make sure he’s under constant surveillance, so he can’t harm himself.” The words sounded strange. Was that the drugs? He felt swirly (was that a word?) like water in a drain. The words had the same affect. They moved all around, swirling together. “Gaaaaaa!” “Please Mr. McDonald. Don’t try to speak. Just relax.”
“Gaaaaaa!” “Janet, give him another shot.” Footsteps approached, a rubbing on his arm, a needle he barely felt. “We can operate of course, Mrs. McDonald. But the procedure will be long and painful, for both of you.” Words paused. Silence. Or was that sleep? He went under again. * Some time later: “He obviously needs mental attention. That’s just something we can’t do here. The choice is up to you, of course. Whether or not you feel that’s right. But there are nurses who can help him if you decide to go that route. You can find someone to help you with him at home. He’ll still be able to move around, go to the bathroom, even bathe himself. But he’s done considerable damage to his body.” No reply. Just the darkness. Perhaps a nod. He could smell Mary, the same, simple womanly odor of soft perfume. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said. Had he failed again? Was there something he hadn’t realized? He’d heard about it before, but never believed it. He didn’t think people were actually that way. He’d seen it in movies, read it in books. But that was all he thought. After all, he wasn’t that way. “Well, we’ll keep him here for a while,” the doctor said. “He needs to be stabilized. But we’ll let him go home with you eventually, Mrs. McDonald. It was a good thing you came home early and found him when you did. That probably saved his life.” A hand rubbed his shoulder, Mary’s hand. Footsteps walked away. He was alone with Mary now. He was trying to say, “Want you to leave.” But it came out like, “Aaaant ooo ooo eeeve.” Mary understood perfectly. “How can I leave you now, Reginald? There’s no way I’ll ever leave you. You need help. You need to be taken care of.” “Gaaaaa!” he cried, in defiance. This wasn’t happening, he thought. After all he’d done, all he’d gone through, this was how she repaid him? It couldn’t be! It had to be a dream! “We’ll get someone to come over. I don’t know if I can bear the thought of you in an institution. I don’t know how they’ll take care of you there. We’re going to go home, and we’re going to live our life. And we’re going to get you well again. Everything will be okay. You’ll see. Everything will be fine.” A long pause followed. Then: “I love you too much Reginald. Even if you still don’t see it. You will someday. And you’ll be thankful I was here for you. You’ll be thankful it was me. That it was me taking care of you.” “Iiiii happaaiii,” translated into, “Isn’t happening.” “I know it’s hard for you, Reggy. But it will get better. Someone will always be there to watch over you. Always. You’ll never be alone again. You can’t afford to hurt yourself anymore. I can’t afford to have you hurt yourself. I love you too much, Reggy.” Horror, the dawning, nightmarish reality of it all sunk deeply. Not just all he’d done, but Mary, too. He could walk, see, talk, move another arm, have an unblemished chest, if only he could see what Mary saw. If only he’d had the strength and power to accept his marriage, he could live a happy, healthy life. Didn’t he understand that people dreamed of this, dreamed of having someone like Mary in their lives? Someone who loved and cared about them as much as Mary did? People would kill to have that. Or mutilate themselves, he thought. He hadn’t done it for that reason alone. He’d wanted her to leave, and she wouldn’t. It was as simple as that. Now more than ever, she would never leave. He died a little inside. He could’ve made it easier. He had it in him now to beat her, he knew, cheat on her. But who would have him the way he was now? And how would he beat her if he couldn’t find her, hobbling around, swinging at empty air? He had one good leg and one good arm. But he was blind. She would hear him coming. He wouldn’t be able to find the kitchen knives. No doubt, she’d hide everything from him. God, what had he done? In reply to his own thoughts, he made painful, gagging sounds. “It’s okay, baby,” Mary said. “It’s okay. I know it hurts.’’ But she didn’t. How could she? An arm went around his shoulder. He smelled her perfume. She kissed his cheek. This was Hell. This was worse than death. This was worse than Hell. I could cheat on you now, he thought. But he knew the words, like the darkness behind his lids, were empty. I could beat you now, if only you’d let me. If only you’d give me a chance. I can do those things and more. I know I can. What he should’ve done was cut out his ears, make himself deaf. He should’ve taken the welder and sealed them shut. That would’ve been bliss. That would’ve been perfect.
Maybe, he thought. Just
maybe…In the time she’s away, I’ll find a way to melt my ears
shut, seal up my nose…
It was good to hope.
It was good to dream.
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