Whims and Fancies - 1. Latex

Latex gloves snapped on: its overwhelming odour filled my nostrils. I picked up the blade and with a steady pressure, watched as the layers of flesh peel apart. Despite the morbidity, I never failed to notice how uncannily similar it felt to a kitchen knife running through a pork shoulder. Blood oozed from the laceration, viscous and vivid: the ruby droplets gathering in the freshly opened gash. Latex squelched against flesh as my hands pushed into the cavity.

‘Cross one stich two,’ my mother taught me. My fingers handled the needle deftly like a seasoned seamstress, thread pulling through the skin like laces on a corset. I fumbled through the final knot as I always have, my butter fingers lubricated. Setting down the tainted tools, I stepped back from my station. My work was completed.

My joints creaked as I shifted my weight. A dull throbbing began in my toes, creeping its way up into my knees and back, gathering in my elbows and wrist. I whipped by head back, popping the bubble of tension gathering at the nape of my neck.

The monotonous whirring of machines clicked off as I peeled the pink latex gloves from my clammy fingers, leaving a pungent odour under my fingernails. I dropped them in the metal tray, atop a heap of bloodied gauze. I took pause to ponder the fate of the waste: rubies turned to dirt.

I stood before the door, inhaling deeply.

The fluorescent lights burned. Sounds assaulted my sensitised ears: metal crashed against metal, footsteps pounding against linoleum, papers ruffled in the distance. The hallway stretched before me like a red carpet: eyes fixated on my every move. I felt the worry and frustration, the rage and despair pummelling away in the vibrations of their voices. Despite their potent emotions hacking away at my high walls, it was the tinge of persistent hope that barrelled through my defenses.

“We did everything we could…” I regurgitated. Shoulders sagged, tears fell and bodies crumpled. The metal crashing, footsteps pounding and ruffling papers in my ears gave way to an incessant sobbing. Curses and insults were hurled: anger combusting and frustration consuming, but it was the quiet sobbing that plagued my mind. The sheer despair and defeat gnawed away at my well-trained, well-rehearsed performance. “I’m sorry.”

I stood, back against the wall, exhaling. Exhaustion fell from my shoulders like raindrops off a tent. I wiped the defiant tear from my cheek. I stepped toward the sink, fingers working in rehearsed memory. I scrubbed my hands sterile but the scent of death and latex lingered under my fingernails. I shook my head and scrubbed them once more.

A dark room greeted me; bright lights cast a halo on yet another peaceful face. My hands hovered over yet another pale expanse of skin. I inhaled deeply, as I pressed the blade into flesh, the latex gloves quietly supporting my hands.