By Harmony Button
There is a certain horror to the ordinary. Every day, we force ourselves to do things that go against the messages of the body. I watch the nurse turn towards me, needle in her hand. She swabs my inner arm and I look away. Run! says the body. Bite and fight! But instead, I stare at a spot on the wall and try to count to ten.
The nurse tries to make conversation. I can’t remember what comes after three.
“So, are you married?”
I tell her the truth: I am not.
“Just having fun, then,” she says, drawing the blood.
This woman does not know me. Everything about what’s happening is wrong. I need out of this immediately, and my body pulls the ripcord.