The Doctor

You were just a boy.  I was a man.  You laid there, quietly with your body as still as a corpse.  You moved you eyes nervously in an elliptical orbit from overhead light, to me, to syringe back to light.  You laid perfectly still.  “Will it hurt?” You wouldn’t talk to the doctor and any of the medical staff.  The doctor answered, “Yes, it will hurt. Very much so.”  Silence.  You refused to hear.  “Will it hurt?”  I echoed the doctor’s words as I looked at the tip of the syringe as it pierced your skin, “Yes, it will hurt.  Very much so.”

The tip of the needle settled into a bluish vein and the nurse deftly taped the needle to the crux of your elbow.  A thick reddish orange molten lava flowed from the IV bag into your body—hot and acerbic.  The taste of metal covered your soft palate like a dry red wine.  “Can I have some water?”  No water.

“Did you ever skip stones across the water?”   You grimaced as the lava filled your sinus cavities.