Hemorrhage

The doctor confesses to me that he is unable to stop the bleeding.

Every time Doctor Henry Payne exhales, his pungently warm coffee breath throttles my nose like an uppercut. On the wall behind the doctor, his ironic name is printed on a diploma from UC Davis in a frame that needs to be dusted. I wipe a bloody tear from my eye.

“We could not find any abrasions or lacerations in your eye that would be causing you to hemorrhage. I uh...to be honest...I’ve never um seen anything like this in my twenty years of practice.” The doctor predictably takes another sip of coffee exacerbating his already poignant carbon monoxide exhalations.

I can hear my watch ticking. Each click of the watch hands echoes inside my skull. The fragrant certainty of the diagnosis rests massively upon my shoulders.

“So...this is death then?” I dramatically wipe away another drop of blood.

“The hemorrhage is fortunately not extreme. I would say the rate of bleeding is significantly less than that of a woman’s menstruation. Uh, I have, that is to say, I am unsure if the bleeding will increase or stop on its own. There just is really no way to say. You may find yourself feeling weak or tired. I don’t believe you will die. I could tape some gauze pads to your eyes to help absorb the blood?” The doctor fidgets with his cup: “Diagnosis: I need more coffee” is written in purple on the mug.

I stare at the “doctor” for several minutes without speaking. My watch ticks. Dr. Payne fidgets in his seat looking uneasy and unsure what to say. Puffing out my chest and flexing my muscles, I let out a mighty scream. The doctor winces. He shoves his fingers into his ears.

As I step outside the doctor’s office, I expect it to be raining. Alas, the sky is clear, and the sun doth shine. Where there is sunshine there should be warmth, but warmth is just the sensation of a moderate degree of heat.

Pulling my blue Ralph Lauren Lightweight Bomber Jacket taut against my body, the sensation of warmth still eludes me. I wipe some more blood from my eyes and put on my sunglasses. Through my shades, the coagulated blood on my hands appears to me in the shape of a bull with large ominous horns extending across my right palm from my thumb to pinkie.

Scrolling through my smartphone, I realize there is no one to call. Alone. Lonely. Unloved. I have everything, but I still have nothing. It’s as if I don’t even exist.

A good-looking young man strolls by and stops between me and my car parked at the curb. “Hey aren’t you…”

“Yep.” I cut the kid off mid-sentence as I search my pocket for my car keys. Am I really me? Who am I? What am I? The young man’s face lights up as he notices the car behind him.

“Wow.” The lad starts to reach out to touch the car but pulls his hand back. “Sorry. I’ve never seen a car like this. What is it?”

Aston Martin Victor. It sounds like a 19th century thespian but is in fact one of the most expensive cars in the world. Far above me, the cosmos scoffs.

“Here take it. It’s yours now.” I toss the kid the keys and he fumbles them and has to reach down to retrieve them from the dingy sidewalk.

“No way, I can’t take your car.” The young man’s jaw hangs slack as he tries to hand the keys back to me.

“It’s yours now. Open the glove box. Hand me the registration.” I motion toward the car. “What’s your name, pal?”

“Tyler Watkins.” The young lad retrieves the registration and hands it to me.

I sign the registration over to Tyler Watkins and hand the registration to him.

“What will you do without a car?” Tyler is no longer making eye contact, he is busy giving the car’s interior a once-over.

“I shall seek to destroy the preconceived notions of masculinity and then fade into the ether.”

“Hmm...sounds chill. Uh, good luck then. Thank you!” The young man has already climbed into the car and is rooting around inside. I saunter off.

Behind me, the rev of the V12 engine coming to life signifies my transition into unattachment. What the hell does V12 even mean? I never bothered to find out, but it always sounded so sexy.

The sun slips away, unfurling a thick blanket of darkness, starless and brisk.

I’ve been walking for hours. Lost. Aimless. No destination in mind, but feeling drawn forward just the same. The pulsing of my ruminations beats against my skull. In the darkness I am obtuse. Stagnant.

"So you just gonna give up?” A voice calls out from the darkness to my left. It is raspy and gruff.

“What kind of life is there for me, with a face tainted by the relentless flow of these bloody tears.”

A bull appears in front of me. It approaches slowly. The bulls' horns loom above my head dripping with the perspiration of the dewy night. The bull grunts.

“To me, your tears look like tears. Like many mammals, I am red-green color blind. You didn’t know that did you? To you, bulls react to the redness of the cape, when in fact it's the motion that we react to. Anyhow, you are not your face. Your face is a distraction from your true self.”

“That doesn’t make sense, and I knew bulls were color blind. Read it somewhere. Um. Yeah, so, I know stuff too.”

“You know it because I know it.”

Far off a wolf howls startling me.

“Don’t fret, he is miles away.”

“How do you know it’s a male?”

"Experience. You look cold.”

“Yeah. I am. Have been all night.”

“Come on inside then. Let me keep you warm.”

“Is there a house nearby? I don’t see any lights.”

“No, house. My body is my home and I invite you to come inside.”

“Inside? Your Body? Like crawl in your mouth...or the other end?”

“No weirdo. Cut me open. Eat my heart. Warm yourself.”

“So, um how am I the weirdo in this situation…”

The bull makes a noise that could be a laugh. “I’m supposed to be the stubborn one, but I guess not everything is always the way it is written or foreseen. Now get that buck knife out and get to work.”

I unsheath and unfold my buck knife.

The sounds of the crickets coalesce with the cutting of flesh and muscle.

I watch the bulls heart beat as he lifts his head up towards me.

“Go on then. There are other worlds than this one. Farewell.”

The bull lays his head down and closes his eyes.

I cut around the heart and pull it free. Masticating the heart, I feel warm. The illusion of warmth. I cry, but now it’s not the unseen hemmorage, it’s coming from somewhere deeper. I take a few more bites from the heart, then place it on the ground and start to remove the insides of the bull. I climb inside the bull and pull the flaps of skin around me. Enfolded. Encased.

The pitying moon is but a sliver in the sky. I smear my bloody hands upon my face and close my eyes.

Tomorrow I will awaken reborn.

Tomorrow I will cry.

My blood will become a flame that will become a beacon to guide me home.

Tomorrow I will feel no more shame.