May. 11th, 2014

novapsyche: hands actively utilizing a manual typewriter (activetypewriter)
prompt )

The Disappearances

The crabapple-shaped head of the female before me lolled and bobbed as her nimble hands inserted the IV into a vein near the crook of my elbow. No soothing words of comfort came, like those I remembered nurses at my local clinic intoning. No, this procedure was more businesslike and mechanical, like the ticking of a metronome.

As my blood flowed into the translucent tube, I peered down the row of other participants in this ritual. The assembly line of people reminded me of the dejected atmosphere and scenery of the plasma center back home, the flat faces like that of pennies rubbed blank by countless fingers. The dull gray walls reflected each one's inner life. No one besides myself looked around but rather straight ahead into their own imagined nothingness.

The crabapple-headed female emitted a series of clicks, whines and whistles. An assistant, a crouched, scale-skinned figure, scuttled up the aisle with a cylinder of gas and attendant mask. Again, without any assurances offered, spindle-fingered hands outfitted me with this device. The gas itself was invisible, but the scent reminded me of clove, licorice, and wet dirt.

I watched as my blood turned purple.

It was like this every day.

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