DRAINED*
DREADFUL - EVENT #10
Fuck cancer.
Isn’t that the phrase people say? Aren’t those the words that people shout in anger, sadness, and overwhelming grief as they watch a casket descend to its final destination? Isn’t that the sentiment individuals feel burning in their bones as a loved one tells them the news? Is that the mantra oncologists tell themselves to stomach a profession so entrenched in death and despair?
For a long time, Zara wasn’t sure. Nobody said the words to her in a harsh whisper or with spittle arcing through the air.
See, people can be quick to acknowledge the cancer without ever understanding the individual who is suffering. Cancer is a concept to them. Something seen in movies. A plot point to move a book along. A chance for redemption. A reason to fight. The foreboding clouds before the sky part ways for a brighter day.
Zara was one of those fools. She had experienced it all. She wept at the beach reads where cancer threatened to take away the love interest. She had said into the phone how sorry she was that so-and-so died from cancer, even though she hadn’t thought of them in years. The news hit her no differently than reading about a drone strike in a distant war that killed dozens. The lives lost meant nothing. The words bleeding with death meant nothing. The names were scribbled in a foreign language, marked with indifference. She packed up her thoughts and carried them onto the next topic. She was just as guilty as the people she had come to despise.
She could only blame herself then after she told her family. She should have known what the fallout would be. She should have known that the cowards would scurry and the well-wishers would only have so much breath for her.
Because that’s the thing no one tells you after you get diagnosed with cancer: you will be abandoned.
Friends, family, acquaintances, coworkers, social media pals, distant relatives, husbands, wives, children, sworn enemies. You name it. The list is a true slog to read. No one is spared. No one is free from the gnarly beast of burden. It’s easier to leave a body to rot than tend to its needs.
Abandonment is a part of the cancer journey. It’s just as vital as the chemotherapy treatments that Zara endured. Those long days and evenings wasting away in the chair, sinking further and further into herself. She tried to distract herself with books and a free-running imagination, but nothing took hold. The television in the corner of the room blared out its concerns and omens. Some seemed invested in what was shared, while others lost themselves just as deeply as Zara did. For Zara, she focused on the thumping of her pulse and the needle wedged into her skin. She watched the bag dwindle and deposit its liquid into her bloodstream. When she grew bored with that, she fixated on the future nausea that would plague her.
And when all else failed, she listed out the ones who had left her behind.
The effort became cathartic. It allowed her to be introspective without being depressed. Sure, it would have been easy to lose herself to that list, but that just didn’t seem worth the energy. When she found sanity and clarity during the chemotherapy, she allowed herself to rationalize her situation. And all that time and contemplation amounted to one result:
She had absolutely no control. No control over the actions of others. No control over whether the chemotherapy would do its job. No control over what the television theorizes and prophesies.
No control. None.
The realization was liberating and had been a guiding force for months.
It’s a large part of why she is tied down to the bed now in Nurse Geoff’s apartment. Her ankles and wrists are fastened to their respective corners, allowing her body to stretch into a beautiful X shape. She’s lost weight from the chemotherapy, allowing the curves of her hips to be more prominent. This time, she opted to keep her bra and panties on. She admires her body, at least the parts she can see. Nurse Geoff told her to leave the wig at home today, so Zara did. She’s thankful that she can’t see the peach fuzz on her head. She’s ashamed by her deprecated look from the neck up. It will take time for her face to recover any youthful glow or her hair to grow back, but she is determined to get there.
Until then, she is surrendering all control.
Nurse Geoff has been watching television in the other room for hours. Zara can hear the occasional roar of fabricated laughter, although the exact words never reach her. Earlier, he asked her how long she wanted to be tied up and Zara only shrugged. Nurse Geoff shrugged in return as he tightened the silk cloths against her ankles and wrists. They allowed for enough comfort and breathability so that Zara didn’t hyper-focus on her inability to move.
“Hey, Geoff,” Zara calls out. She lifts her head enough to see down the hallway.
No answer is returned.
“Geoff, are you there?” she says louder. Much like his entire apartment, the hallway is barren of any artwork or style that could describe Geoff. Although to describe someone like Nurse Geoff would take considerable thought and branching narratives. Zara allowed him to be quirky and bizarre, and he allowed her to use his apartment for her (somewhat) selfish needs. Their blossoming relationship has no physical chemistry. They have never kissed. They hug only when Zara leaves. Being tied up to the bed elicits no deeper desire than wanting to relinquish control over herself, to bring herself an inner peace that has outpaced her for so long. Zara understands the amount of backpedaling she’d have to do if someone she knew waltzed into the apartment and saw her in this state. Those are the concerns and dead ends she is looking to strip away.
Focus on the present. Focus on the attainable.
And right now, her mind is fully engaged on using the bathroom.
“Geoff! Hello!” she yells with a sweetness still twinged to her voice. She’s not angry by any means.
The third summoning seems to work. The laughter from the television ceases and Zara hears footsteps heading her way.
“Hello, honey,” Geoff says as he makes it to the doorway. He leans against the frame and crosses his arms. “Is everything okay? Still comfortable?”
“Very comfortable, but I need to use the bathroom. Would you mind loosening the straps?”
“Most certainly. My pleasure. Anything for you.” The niceties radiate off Geoff at a nauseating pace. He’s like an overexcited puppy begging for attention and approval.
Geoff starts with the right wrist and works his way around clockwise. One tug on the silk is all it takes to dislodge each knot.
“Free from your bondage,” Geoff announces as he pulls the cloth from Zara’s left wrist.
Instinctively, Zara rubs all wrists and flexes her ankles. They don’t ache or hurt, but she still imagines herself stepping out of prison, with freedom and fresh air on her face. If anything, it’s how she felt each day she left the hospital after a treatment. The key differences being that the heat was overwhelming, the air was tarnished with pollutants, and her body shivered in confusion from the change in temperature.
“Thank you,” Zara says. She glances at her clothes on the end table and decides against putting anything more on. Geoff won’t gawk at her half-naked body. He isn’t the type.
Zara makes her way into the living room. The room is spacious. On one wall, the television continues to showcase the generic sitcom. Across from it sits a folding chair, like one you’d find at a Little League game. When asked about the modest accommodations within the expansive apartment, Geoff shrugged and said that he hadn’t found his style yet. Zara moves through the room and to her destination, passing the spare bedroom. The door is always shut. Always. Geoff says his dog is in there, which he describes as wonderful and clingy.
“He has a way of latching onto people, so I just think it’s better if he stays in the room while you are here,” he described during Zara’s first visit. She nodded, not finding any fault with the explanation. She tolerated dogs. She believed some owners took too much liberty in thinking their pile of fur was adored by everyone and let them run amok. Zara found herself recoiling each time she passed a dog on the street. She could never discern between aggression and playfulness. A jumping, tail-wagging dog sent her heart rate skyrocketing every time. Geoff’s decision to leave his dog in the room was a thoughtful gesture, one she reiterated to him several times. And it was apparent that Geoff cared about the dog immensely. He spoke about how the spare bedroom had all sorts of toys and obstacles to keep the dog occupied while Zara was at the apartment. For all the supposed entertainment the dog had, Zara never once heard him playing with any of it. On top of that, the dog never whined or barked. Geoff commented on that once by saying that while Lee was a rescue, he was “classically” trained and could be as mute as a mouse for hours.
After using the bathroom, Zara washes her hands for thirty seconds. Doctors have assured her that her immune system is building itself back up. Zara is skeptical. She’s read competing theories online about how her immune system is recovering after the chemotherapy. Zara will only let her skepticism run untethered for so long because, at the end of it all, she has no control over what happens outside of protecting herself in simple ways.
Her hands now smell like lemon cucumber, a surprising combination that follows her through the apartment and back into the bedroom.
“All settled, cupcake?” Geoff asks. He is sitting on the bed and twiddling one of the cloths between his fingers.
“Yes. Am I keeping you from anything? I don’t want to take up your entire evening.”
“No, no, no, my pumpkin pie. You are nary a bother. No plans all night for this guy.” Geoff points at himself in case there was any confusion about who he was referring to. The end of his thumb bends outward and looks like an alien limb. “Hey,” he continues, slapping a knee and hopping off the bed, “I have another interesting fact for you.”
Nurse Geoff thrives off of his self-proclaimed interesting facts. It’s how Zara first met him at the hospital. As he made his rounds with the patients receiving chemotherapy, Nurse Geoff would serenade them with various facts about unconnected things. Zara had questioned the validity of his statements, but Nurse Geoff waved off the concerns and said she had more important things to focus on.
Don’t be mistaken, though. Their friendship began lukewarm at the hospital. As much as Nurse Geoff tried to keep Zara’s spirits up during her treatments, Zara repeatedly cast him aside in favor of her preferred internal contemplations. It wasn’t until a month after the treatments ended that Zara matched with Nurse Geoff on Tinder and continued whatever fractured conversation they left off at. Their current arrangement happened in a blur after a passing comment about relinquishing control. From there, plans were made, materials were bought, and time was carved out for Zara to fall deeper into this stranger’s bed.
“The best facts aren’t interesting, you know?” Zara says. “They just are.”
“Is that so? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that rationale before. Do you not like my facts?” Geoff says with a frown. “I can stop. I don’t mind. Really. It’s no bother, my sweet chocolate.”
“No, no. I’m not saying that. Please enlighten me.” Zara sits on the bed and watches as Geoff walks a tight path on the other side of the room. He bounces with each step and runs a hand through his unkempt beard. “Did you know that ninety percent of the world is uninhabited?”
“No kidding,” Zara says, feigning something between incredulity and distrust. That’s the thing about Geoff’s facts—they always appear to be tinged with exaggeration. Like a child recapping a dream they had, or that one relative who insists that everyone is out to get them. Zara doesn’t mind the truth being extended or even fabricated, but she can’t help but wonder why Geoff bothers with any of it. Is it out of ennui or an actual belief that what he says is, in fact, fact?
“No kidding here whatsoever.” Geoff nods vigorously. “Ninety percent. Of course, the oceans take up much of Earth’s surface, so that space is immediately discarded. But as for the land, humans are only occupying a sliver. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Amazing,” Zara echoes. She looks down at the silk restraints and thinks back to the first time they used actual handcuffs. The ones with fur dangling off the ends so people know they aren’t meant for more than fun. They also had a clasp that Zara could undo with ease in case Nurse Geoff turned out to be some sadist or creep. Those days are now behind them. Trust has allowed them to move onto different tools while still desiring the same outcome.
“What’s truly amazing about that fact is what lies in between that number. For the ten percent of land that humans do inhabit, they have ravaged the resources. They have drained the environment of life and beauty. They have distilled this planet to a hollow shell teetering on extinction. And for what? Preservation? Fostering human life so that it can continue for generations? What makes us so important that we need to survive? Our existential dread propels us forward. Our deep-rooted longing for meaning and purpose causes many to cling to life. Our disdain for nothingness drives demand for bombastic cinema and the destruction of sacred sites. We need to return to our roots. We need to remind ourselves that how we once lived wasn’t archaic. If anything, the basic ideas were far superior to the bloat and extremes so many of us utilize now. It’s a mess. A gooey, sticky ball of filth. Don’t you see? Doesn’t that resonate with you? Why else would you fight so hard for your life when you had such a convenient way out?”
“Geoff,” Zara says firmly. Sometimes he falls inward, slipping into an undesirable place that she is all too familiar with.
He shakes his head and clears the trail of thoughts. “Hmm. Right. Yes. Sorry, my chickadee. I was wandering into unsavory lands. Sometimes my brain leads me astray. Too much time in front of the idiot box,” Geoff says, chuckling to himself.
“You have given me something to think about,” Zara says. “We tend to ruin things. The best intentions are hardly ever the right ones, wouldn’t you say?”
“Exactly.” Geoff smiles and sticks out his bizarre thumb. “Do you want to get back to it?”
“Sure.” Zara delays her return to the bed by refolding her clothes on the end table. She takes her time and ensures that the creases are symmetrical. She stacks her shirt on top of the pants and then her phone and keys nestled atop the clothes. “Ready,” she says. Zara flops down onto the bed and repositions herself. She stretches out each limb until they are pointing in the correct direction. Zara steadies her breath and clears her mind. Let the thoughts flood in later. Let the concerns of the future stay in the distance. Remain in this room. In this safe place.
Nurse Geoff works his way around the bed. The knots press against Zara’s skin but still allow her enough room to flex.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
“It’s perfect.”
Geoff blushes at the supposed compliment. “Thank you, my luscious forest. That means so much. Your approval keeps me motivated. Your presence gives me the confidence to pursue my dreams. You’re a shining shelter within a dreary storm.”
Zara absorbs the barrage. Whenever Geoff dips into his arsenal of praise, Zara closes her eyes and waits for it all to pass. She isn’t used to someone lauding her, especially for a comment as benign as telling Geoff that his knots are comfortable. These are the moments when Zara wonders who Geoff truly is. What kind of upbringing did he have? Were his parents of a similar kin, or was he the exception? Did he have friends at school or spend his days shuttered away from the rest? The questions are perched on the edge of Zara’s lips. She wants to pry deeper into Geoff’s life, but their relationship doesn’t allow for such things. Their transactions are one-sided. And sometime soon, she will move on to something better, to something more aligned with what her future is meant to be.
Geoff returns to his setup in the living room. With her eyes still closed, Zara tries to tune out the reignited blaring sounds from the television. She does her best to ignore the itch that has cropped up on her ribs. That’s the worst part about being restrained. She grits her teeth and shuffles her mind elsewhere until the sensation falls away.
Time carries on, although the minutes and seconds become a convoluted pile. On occasion, Zara will open her eyes again and stare at the ceiling. The fan above her is covered in a thick layer of dust that she can see creeping over the edges of each blade. Zara’s mother would disapprove of such uncleanliness. Always had. But her mother hasn’t been here for the past year, so do her opinions even matter anymore? She became one of the countless drones that left Zara behind after the diagnosis. All those lessons, all those memories together now mean nothing. Zara has surrendered control over the actions of others, but that doesn’t mean pain isn’t lurking in the shadows. Why else would she be here? Why else would she strip herself bare in front of a man who has a fondness for sharing distorted facts?
Zara closes her eyes again and lets time carry her forward. Control is an illusion. Some may even argue that choice is an even larger illusion. She envisions the cancer cells in her body waging war, clashing against the chemotherapy and succumbing to their wounds. How is it that something so microscopic can be so destructive? That’s the other thing people don’t tell you after being diagnosed with cancer: you question everything. It’s easy to spiral into a cynical cycle where you spout off oddities like Geoff is keen to disclose. It’s far too easy to watch others receiving chemotherapy and wonder why they are even bothering. Their bodies are withered. Their demeanors are crushed. They sink into the chairs and barely have the energy to breathe. All of them share the collective thought of ringing that fucking bell to tell the world how they are free of it. But some won’t. Some won’t even make it out of the hospital.
All because of those microscopic villains. All because you were dealt a shitty hand.
This is when Zara calls out to Geoff. This is when she needs further distractions because her mind has careened off the road and is rummaging through the woods.
He stands before her now with a look of longing. No, not that. Concern.
“I have an idea,” he says. “You seem agitated today. Inward. Lost to your emotions.”
Zara nods.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to share with you. But you need to have an open mind. It’s old-school. Many would argue that we have evolved past such measures, but I believe that returning to something so fundamental is the key to growth. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Zara says. She trusts him, but it is more so that she has given up control. Whatever Geoff has in store for her is what should happen. Nothing could be as traumatic as her past year.
“Wonderful. That’s really wonderful, my sugar cookie.” Geoff steps closer to the bed and reaches inside the end table. Geoff pulls free another piece of silk. “Are you okay with me using this as a blindfold? What I’m about to do is best felt and not seen.”
“Sure.” Control is an illusion.
Geoff sticks out an alien thumb and leans over the bed. Zara lifts her head so that he can tie the piece of silk around her eyes. She feels the knot tighten around the back of her skull as the colors of the room fade.
“How is that?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
Geoff claps his hands together. “Oh, that is just incredible to hear. You know what to say that just makes me feel like one in a trillion.”
Zara doesn’t see a reason to respond. Silence ripples out between them until she hears Geoff’s footsteps retreat into the hallway. She tries to envision his path ahead. She pictures him waltzing around the kitchen and grabbing a lighter and some candles. He sidesteps the dog bowls and the mountainous bag of food he has for Lee. Maybe he even scoops up a box of chocolates he has stashed away. The gesture isn’t meant to be romantic, only a thank you to Zara for coming into his life.
When Geoff returns, his footsteps are heavier and more spaced out, as if he is lugging something half his body weight.
“Still with me, my spicy gingerbread?” he asks. The words are methodical and labored.
“Still here,” Zara says. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. It’s . . . all . . . peaches . . . in here.” Something presses down on the bed. Geoff huffs out a long breath, mutters words to himself, and then speaks louder for all to hear. “Pardon my dust; this is more cumbersome than anticipated.”
“What is going on?” Zara strains her neck and tries to see through the blindfold. No luck.
“Patience, my pretty princess. I am vamping to buy myself a bit more time. Have I ever told you why I got into nursing?”
“No.”
“Oh, do you mind if I share?”
“Go ahead,” Zara says.
Geoff clears his throat. Zara pictures him thrusting out that trusty thumb toward her. “Modern medicine is in shambles. Too many vaccines. Too many OTC medications that the common man can guzzle down like popcorn. Our immune systems are weakened because of it. Did you know that cancer rates are higher now than at any other time in history? As shocked as you may be to hear that, consider this as well: people are more sedentary now than ever before. We lose ourselves behind computer screens and workplace tedium. We spend eons wasting away before the idiot box. And I am no exception to it! We are all guilty, and we are all suffering because of our choices. That’s why I became a nurse—to see firsthand how rapidly we are devolving. And let me tell you, the facts don’t lie. Heart disease is skyrocketing. Obesity is the largest pandemic facing this country. Neglect and abuse are deadly afflictions that are typically ignored. I told myself that I could be a catalyst for good. For change. Zara, I watched your body inhale the chemotherapy regimen and I knew it wouldn’t be enough. Regardless of what the doctors said. Your body is in crisis. I can remedy your pain. I can—”
“Geoff, you are rambling again.”
“No,” he says sternly. “No, my petite apple pie. I am clearheaded. I have been waiting for you. For someone like you to accept me as I am. I have been waiting for this moment. I am ready to cure you.” Geoff grunts and steps closer to Zara. She can feel his heaviness hovering over her. Her pulse quickens as the darkness within her blindfold somehow thickens, as if a rain cloud is passing through.
A weight presses and settles onto Zara’s chest. It’s like a child tapdancing across her breasts. “Ge—” she tries to say, but the word is snuffed out. The air catapulted from her lungs and thrust out to die an unmemorable death. “Geo—” Same result. A sliminess is drenched on her skin. Trails of goo seep down her ribs and puddle onto the bed. Whatever is now on her moves with slow intention, apparently satisfied with its current placement. The stench reaches her nose. A miserable mix of earth, stale water, and mold. Zara tries not to gag, but she feels the vomit forming in her throat. She takes shallow breaths through her mouth and swallows back the vomit as best she can. “Geoff,” she manages to say, adjusting to the weight pressed against her. “Geoff, please.”
The only response is a tingling sensation in the center of her chest. Too faint to be a bite or a sting, but enough to be registered by her body.
“There, there,” Geoff says. He shushes her and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re okay. Just breath. You are being cured, my billion-dollar baby. Do you want to see?” His voice climbing up an octave in excitement. “Do you want to see what I have been incubating for you?”
Zara shakes her head, puffing out her cheeks to give herself a brief reprieve from the stench.
“Aw, come on now. Be appreciative.” Geoff runs his hand through her hair again and stops when he reaches the blindfold. “I can explain everything. And don’t worry, I am keeping a timer. Nine minutes and thirty-five seconds. Thirty-four. Thirty-three . . . You get the idea.”
Even with her eyes closed, Zara can tell that the blindfold has been removed.
“Wakey, wakey,” Geoff says, pushing on her shoulder. “You will really want to see this so I can properly explain the situation. Every mastermind has to monologue their plan. It’s rule number one,” he says with a sing-songy pitch.
Against her better judgement, Zara opens her eyes. Control is an illusion. The ceiling fan is still layered in dust. That hasn’t changed. What’s new is the bulbous, elongated creature sitting on Zara’s torso. It is entirely black except for a faint brown line that extends down its length. There are no discerning features, only an endless mass that encapsulates her.
“What the fuck?” Zara ekes out. “A slug? Why?” The words come out as gasps. She reaches for something more profound but can’t form the thought.
Geoff hovers above her and lets out a long laugh. He watches as Zara struggles against the restraints. She kicks up her pelvis in an effort to remove the creature. “You are so naïve. It’s adorable,” he says, composing himself. “That’s Lee! So I fibbed a tiny bit. I don’t actually have a dog, as you can tell. But I do have a leech! Say hello!”
Zara continues to flail about on the bed.
“For months now, I have been helping Lee grow. You know, leeches of this size are quite rare. He has drained me of my blood countless times. I’ve had to be careful because he can be greedy, but it’s all worked out stupendously. I think he’s got some growth left in him and you can help with that! That’s secondary to why you are here, though.”
“Fuck you,” Zara cuts in.
Geoff frowns. “Aw, don’t be like that. I haven’t even told you why yet . . . As I was saying, you are here to finally become cancer-free. Unlike those other poor souls at the hospital, I saw strength in you. Purpose. A long, beautiful future. But only by my hand, only by giving you this gift. Lee will drain you of those nasty toxins. He will carry the burden of freeing you. Just as people had done for thousands of years. Leeches were the pinnacle of medical achievement, and I am just helping you get the treatment you deserve. And before you ask, no, I won’t be sending you a hefty bill afterward.”
Zara takes a deep breath and screams out “FUCK YOU!” with all the energy she can summon.
Geoff frowns again. This time he slams a fist into his open palm. He then throws out his thumb and turns it upside down. “My patience only goes so far, my honeysuckle. If you can’t appreciate this . . . this bestowal, then I can just leave Lee on there until you’re dead. Would you like that? Would you like to die in this bed tonight? Hmm, I can’t hear you. Speak up.” Geoff retracts his thumb and leans closer to Zara.
She closes her eyes and feels the vomit return. It settles into the back of her throat. Just enough that she sees no reason to swallow it back. Instead, Zara sucks in her cheeks and forms her mouth to mimic the barrel of a gun. She projects the puke into Geoff’s face. Both stunned and disgusted, Geoff shambles backward into the wall and wipes his face with ferocity as if acid were sinking into his skin.
“You fucking cunt!” he yells. He pulls at his beard and presses his wet hands to the wall. After he composes himself, he cackles, mirroring the generated laughter he enjoys hearing on the television. “That was a big mistake, my venomous pig. Gigantic. Huge. Massive.” He checks his watch. “Tick, tick, tick. Tock, tock, tock. Let’s listen to the clock. You’re fucked. Fucked. Oh so very fucked,” he sings. He pushes himself off the wall and hops on the soles of his feet. He glides out of the room and down the hall. His thuds retreating until the television blares its manufactured cheering again.
Zara coughs and spits out the rest of the vomit. She pulls at the silk restraints, willing them to rip. Just one. That’s all she needs. The restraints hold firm against her movements. Zara lets her head fall back onto the bed. She stares at the ceiling and wonders how long it will take. Maybe Geoff was conservative with his estimates. Perhaps a leech of this size will make quick work of her. She turns her head to the side and gazes into the corner of the room. This is what she gets for trusting a stranger. This is what she gets for using dating apps. This is what sh—
The keys. Her keys.
They are sitting on top of her clothes. Are they even within reach? Would the keys even be enough to cut through the silk? What if they are enough? What then?
The questions don’t matter. Zara shushes herself and tries to elbow the leech in frustration. She doesn’t get anywhere close.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Zara slides her body as much as she can over to the right side of the bed. It isn’t much, but she gains an inch or two. The weight on her chest remains steady. Lee appears to be single-minded in his desire to slurp up every drop of blood within her.
Zara opens her left hand and stretches her fingers as far as they will go. She grazes against the edge of her shirt. It’s one of her favorites. Zara stretches further. She kicks out her shoulder and flicks her fingers against the shirt. She just needs to get enough fabric between her fingers to pull. She’s close. She’s close. Zara reaches out further. Another millimeter. Another fraction of a fraction of an inch. She’s almost there. “C’mon. C’mon,” she says, breathing heavy. Her arm shakes. Her body tenses. Everything is exhausted—body, mind, and spirit.
Control is an illusion.
Surrender control.
Give it up.
End it.
Be done.
The thoughts rattle around and latch onto whatever crevice they can. They have immense power when Zara gives them meaning. They can alter the course of her entire life.
In this case, she ignores them. She shushes them yet again as drool slides down her cheek.
The fabric slips between her index and middle fingers. Like an insect clamping its mandibles shut, Zara presses her fingers together. Slowly, she pulls the shirt toward her. It inches along atop the pair of pants. Eventually, Zara unclasps her fingers and grabs a fistful of the shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulls the shirt, keys, and phone onto the bed. She bends her wrist and snatches the keys, not even sparing a thought for the phone that scuttles off the edge.
Zara picks the largest key on the ring and stabs it into the silk. It pierces through on the first stab. She then uses the jagged edge and saws against the silk that remains firm. With some effort, Zara tears through half of the restraint. Hope floods into her. She can do this.
Control isn’t an illusion.
Control is a choice.
With one violent yank of the wrist, Zara breaks free from the restraint. A shred of fabric remains tied against her wrist, but it does nothing to keep her contained. Rage pours into her, and she brings down a fist onto Lee’s head. The leech doesn’t react outside of the steady hissing sound that has been emitting from the gelatinous creature. Zara punches him again and again, fighting through whatever weakness is engulfing her body.
Lee continues to suckle on her chest, unbothered by her abuse.
Instead of bashing the creature, Zara reaches over and releases the knot on her right hand. With both hands free, Zara pries her fingers underneath Lee’s thick skin and clenches her jaw as she peels the creature off her. The heft of the leech is immense, stunning. Zara loosens her fingers from underneath Lee and elbows the beast once. Then again. And then once more, because three sounds better than two. Zara moves her body like a pendulum, rocking centimeter by centimeter. Anything to gain more leverage. Lee remains unfazed. Pain streaks across Zara’s body with each attempt to gain ground. With one palm facing up and the other hand burrowing into the space between her skin and the leech’s bulk, Zara pushes and pulls. Her strength is abysmal. Another thing lost within this shit year. But she persists. She persists because anything else is accepting death. And, goddammit, she is not ready for that. Zara grinds her teeth and slides a hip further under herself. Her breath shallows. Her mind becomes a pinhole of one circulating idea. She pulls. She pushes. She fights for each centimeter and feels the leech lose its grip. Further. Further. Further . . . An audible pop sounds as Lee’s suction and teeth are removed from Zara’s chest. The leech flops over onto the side of the bed and remains motionless except for the mouth that changes in size as it searches for its next meal.
Blood seeps down Zara’s chest as she sits up and undoes the knots on her ankles. Elsewhere, the television continues to elicit its screeching.
Free from her tethers, Zara gets off the bed and takes two steps before stumbling against the nearest wall. She catches herself and watches as the blood falls to the floor. She knows the same amount of information about leeches as most people, which means she’s aware of the anticoagulant that leeches emit when they bite. The bleeding could last for hours if Zara doesn’t staunch the wound.
That concern is secondary. She has something else to handle first.
Using the walls for support, Zara lurches out of the bedroom and down the hallway. One hand is pinned against her chest to stop the worst of the blood flow, and the other is lifting her chin.
Before she reaches the threshold into the kitchen, she sees it. Zara changes her path and hobbles over to the kitchen island. She bends down and snatches the dog bowl hiding underneath the island overhang. Her head sways and her eyes shift. Wooziness rolls into her. Zara steadies herself against the island and groans as she lifts herself back up.
Geoff, sitting a dozen feet away, is entranced by the television. His eyes are wide and unblinking. He is sitting cross-legged and tapping a hand against his dirty foot.
To him, he has won. Time is Zara’s enemy, and all he needs to do is busy himself with an episode of some shitty basic cable comedy. He can’t fathom that Zara has escaped. He can’t accept the idea that she hasn’t bled out in the bedroom. When Zara calls his name one last time, he looks at her with astonishment.
“You . . . How . . . I-I—”
As Nurse Geoff searches for understanding, Zara winds back her arm and slingshots it forward. The ceramic dog bowl connects with Geoff’s skull and makes a crunching sound heard over the television. He slides out from the couch and topples to the floor in a two-part thud. Zara sees the wound on his forehead bloom. Blood pours from it faster than Zara’s chest. She smiles and stifles a laugh, coughing instead. With the bowl still in hand, she throws it into the television, creating a spiderweb of cracks that does nothing to shutter the unrelenting howls.
As Geoff’s eyes flutter and his body shakes, the alarm goes off. The siren blares for the neighborhood to hear.
Zara finds the source and heaves the phone against the far wall. It continues to screech. Nothing seems to break as she had hoped.
Zara leaves Geoff’s crumbled body behind and scavenges the kitchen cabinets for towels to press against her wound. She finds them in the third drawer, beneath the thick roll of paper towels sitting on the countertop. Zara grabs everything within arm’s reach and slides down the cabinet onto the floor. On her back, she presses everything she’s holding to the wound, mustering all the strength she has left.
She closes her eyes and thinks about it all. She wonders about abandonment and control and choice and cancer and chemotherapy and nurses and bondage and silk and half hour comedies and how she’d really like to get takeout on her drive home, even though she hasn’t done that in five years. None of the thoughts amount to anything more than mindless drivel. When she opens her eyes, she stares at the ceiling and the black marks creating an ugly constellation. Is it black mold? Are they newborn leeches? She can’t say. She doesn’t need to.
Time wanders on. The television is still blaring. As is the alarm. Zara’s world is enriched with annoying sounds that do nothing to promote peace. She is roused from inaction and lifts the towels from her chest. With her neck craned just enough, Zara can see that the bleeding has tapered. The edges are red and puffy and encircle the triangular incision. Zara lets out a long huff and decides that lying on Geoff’s kitchen floor is not how she will survive long term.
Carefully, Zara rolls over onto her side and then pushes herself up to a sitting position. She shakes her head in amazement at how far she has come. More to go. Much more. To Zara’s surprise, there’s no pain from the bite. Only a slight itchiness that she is fighting against acknowledging. Instead, she focuses her energy on standing up. Geoff continues to take a nap on the floor as the blood leaks out of him. She isn’t a nurse, but Zara knows head wounds are sometimes more bark than bite, so to speak. She doesn’t think she has killed him and confirms her suspicions when she hovers over his body. Geoff’s breathing is ragged and looks slightly problematic, but Zara turns away from him in search of better supplies in the bathroom.
Like any useful nurse, Geoff has a hidden stash of medical curiosities under the bathroom sink. Zara pulls out the container and rummages through the contents. She plucks through each bandage and bottle, examining them with newfound interest.
When Zara steps out of the bathroom, she has a bandage taped to her chest. It’s not the best she could have done, but it’s enough given her desire not to spend the rest of the night in this apartment.
There, halfway down the hallway, Lee is trudging along. His movements are slow and without purpose, like a confused tourist. As Zara sidesteps the creature, she kicks him once in the side and continues into the bedroom. She grabs her phone and keys and grunts in annoyance as she pulls her shirt on. The pants prove to be a longer process, but abiding by the one leg at a time rule results in success. Fully clothed once again, Zara has regained some semblance of dignity.
Lee is now in the kitchen. Zara doesn’t know if leeches have a sense for blood, but she decides to help him with dessert. Gathering all the gusto she has left, Zara gives Lee a bear hug and lifts the oversized devil worm onto Geoff. She waddles with each step toward her target. Her back aches and her arms vibrate from the weight. Like an anvil dropping onto a cartoon villain, Lee collides into Geoff. He lets out a long huff and his body crunches at the impact.
“Here’s a fact for you, asshole: Suck on that,” she says. Zara shrugs her indifference to whether the insult is the best sendoff.
At the apartment door, Zara fumbles with the locks, banging them with an angry fist until she discovers her senses. She takes a deep breath and tries the locks once again with a steadier hand. This time, all of them unlock with ease. She rips the door open and stumbles out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind her, leaving the misery of the apartment to memory.
“Holy shit, what the fuck happened to you?” a voice asks.
Zara regains her posture and looks to her right. Five people are standing nearby in varying stages of disbelief. Clothes are disheveled and faces are worn. All of them seem to have survived their own trauma this evening.
“That?” Zara asks, pointing back to the apartment.
The strangers keep their distance and only nod.
Zara laughs. “Dealing with some attachment issues. I had to take back some control.”