Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Medicine I

<  Bad Blood

by Maree Kimberley        Magic Sauce  >

(scroll below for links to other stories in this series)


My face, I can’t stop it.

An invisible string pulls the corners up, right up to the corner of my eye and in the café I hide, turn my cheek to the other side so you can’t see the tug tug tug of my muscles that I cannot control.

I want to cry but my tear ducts are broken, sucked dry by the drugs that up this and down that and pinch this and poke that until all I am is nerves that scream around the outside of my skin like carnival riders on a runaway rollercoaster.

Breathe, breathe, I try to suck it in and suck it up princess but it hurts, all over the outside and the inside it hurts and if you would just give me, please doctor, just take it all away I’ll be good I promise. I won’t ever complain again if just this once if you make it go away please make it stop.

Inside my heart curls and the rippled quilt of my stomach unfurls and waves, torn seaweed intestines crunching and spitting out the seawater bile of my liver. My head hurts and my solar plexus is grated with the small side, nubbed and rubbed and zested. I am zested but filled with pillows of fatigue that sigh and flop, a defeated couch of me cannot stagger to the door.

Bad blood sucked out and fresh blood pumped in that was the start of it. I suppose they never got rid of all the bad blood, traces clung to the inside of my veins and started rumours, those quiet whispers behind the walls, travelling cell to cell pretending all is bright and sunny while injecting pinpricks of poison.

The speck of dust in your eye.

The grit of parsley on your tooth.

The grey-headed clog of oil in your pore.

I breathe and breathe, deep down in my core like the teacher says with her whale-song voice soothing as the sea but of course in my sea the rip is hidden beneath and I am sick of breathing and all I want is the STUFF.

You do not know my fucking pain. How it scrapes and tears and claws the marks of a birth gone wrong tattooed on the inside of my flesh. Stop talking, shut the fuck up and give me my medicine and then I’ll be good, I promise, I will not cry or shout or swear I will sit and behave, quiet as a deadmouse.

It’s time for my medicine. 


click below for more entries in this series:

Medicine II

Medicine III

Medicine IV


published 5 July 2013