Identity

* * *

He still felt the cold steel in his body causing the red blood to drip down his red hands and cause his vision to blur.

Everything was spots. His spotty vision was wet and it hurt when he blinked. His coat was long and draped around his body and tangled with his bag and made him sweat. He was hot and sweaty but his insides felt frozen like an undercooked microwave dinner. He caught glimpses of himself in the windows and mirrors.

Mirrors were the best clocks. They showed him changing by the second by the minute by the hour. In too many hours he knew he'd bite it and fall down and never wake up. Mirrors were the best clocks and the best cameras and didn't know how to lie.

Fred was right; he was a slimy, short prick but he was right. He should've paid better attention to Fred and should've listened to Fred and shouldn't have ignored Fred.

Whatever, he's got jack shit. Let's just leave him here.

Guys from the pub, guys from the fights—fighters and betters and gamblers. They were angry about losing the fight and angry about losing their money. They couldn't take losing and they couldn't win on their own so they got help. They left him in the dirt left and left him in the alley and left him there to rot. Billy played the old dead possum from possum town and stayed calm. He fought but he wasn't stupid.

Forget it, just leave him.

To hell with Baltimore, to hell with Maryland. Jerks won the battle but not the war. They wanted money, they didn't find it. The last laugh was on them but nobody won. His boots were full and heavy and getting sweaty from hiding the greens inside. It was a good job but maybe not worth the price of admission.

The sharp stuff came out of nowhere. Sharp, jaggy knives cut through his skin and rearranged the interior decorations—a few waves of the wrist, and a knife was like a magic wand. They rearranged the decorations and he had to get them fixed and it was funny and fitting and a clever way of looking at things.

But it was a short ride, thank God. Trains were friendly and fast but he didn't want to die on a train. He checked his watch, checked the sky, checked the time, checked his face in the window. He saw white and pale through blurry eyes but the ride from Baltimore was short, thank God.

Pressure, front and back.

He did as he remembered, kept it nice and snug the whole way. Cabbie said get out but then said hold on. Cab ride was also quick, thank God.

Thank God.

He could still feel the blood.

The blood was warm and red and slick and slimy like Fred's voice. It oozed and moved and pulsed and spilled and stained everything. It was spilling from him and trying to escape from everywhere and he was trying to keep it all in. He was thirsty and his throat was dry and he wanted to drink but he needed his hands to keep the blood inside. He wanted to drink but instead of water there was blood and it choked him and made him cough.

Cut back on the smokes, bub.

His shirt and jacket helped but they were getting dirty with blood and he'd have to waste some more of his money on new clothes if or when he got out. He hoped he got out and never before did he feel so not in control of himself. Things were happening to him and he had no say in the matter.

His heart kept beating faster and kept trying to pump blood but there wasn't enough. He needed to stay awake and his heart was trying but his heart was too stupid to understand that it needed to calm down.

Baltimore was quiet at night and so was DC. People avoided and walked across the street to avoid him and run away. They always ran and the cars always drove.

He had to keep it together and breathe easy and speak easy. Money could do all the talking and it was a good thing money was a universal language. He showed the greens and everything was good but this was a hell of a way to die if he died.

About fifteen minutes. Hang in there, boss.

About fifteen more minutes. Hang in there, boss. Keep it together. Don't lose it. He had to get there and it would be al right. He'd get better and check in and check out and then check back in to a hotel and sleep in a nice comfy bed with fluffy sheets and soft pillows. Free shampoo and toothpaste and he'd get a haircut when he had the chance. Fruits were tasty when you earned them and they smelled good and he was also hungry and had no energy.

Step on it.

He had to move faster. Cabbie did his best. Northeast to Northwest in the District named Columbia. Drive all the way west on Constitution, then head north on 23rd. Take it all the way up and hit the hospital on the left, one block before the Circle. He didn't call an ambulance because it was better that way.

Lights and buildings flashed by on both sides. Too many traffic lights and even if no one's around you couldn't just run the red lights. It was a good idea to remember the route to get around. G Street runs west and 23rd runs north and south. Best not to forget because it was good for getting around.

George Washington showed his big head in a big circle on the big clean shiny floor. Stairs were on both sides and the lobby was pretty nice. The hospital food was good because the cabbie said GW was a rich school and paid for good services and supplies.

The sterile smell of the gurneys and pagers and wheels kept turning down the halls. People ran everywhere, but this time it was for the job. The room had curtains and tools were on the table for stabbing but the idea was that they would fix him instead of hurt him. They were good for decorating but they had to be careful because they were putting him under and "Sir, do you have any allergies?"

Just cats, just cats.

It tasted like blood and there was soft music playing—organs and pianos and deep bass, relaxing for the doctors but scary for the patients sometimes.

I can't get down…

The blood taste in his mouth wouldn't leave and he couldn't spit. More suction took the blood and they replaced it with water.

…and I won't get down…

He was sleepy and tired and dreaming or not dreaming or awake or sober or drunk on drugs. He was always drugged and under. It was no good because he couldn't wake up even if he wanted to. No dreams this time but they were memories. It was hard to tell if they were the same as before or different in his head. Nothing was grey or windy but there was plenty of sticky red.

…and stay all night with thee…

His muscles failed and something felt loose like it was rattling around in a cage or a box. He could hear the stabbing and feel the poking. His eyes were shut but he could still see. He could see but he couldn't talk or hear or feel anything except the numb rattling. It was too loud in his ears and he heard lots of talking and saw blue masks and faces looking down at him.

…and the wind did howl…

They were stabbing and poking and stitching and cutting and the doctors screamed because of something sudden and scary. His muscles tried something but they gave up and he fell back down. Metal crashed onto the floor nearby and more stuff got knocked over. But he fell back asleep. His heart was smarter this time. His heart was beating and beating and he could hear the thumps and beats like music.

…and the wind did blow—

The real music stopped and the beeps counted the numbers of his body and kept going up on the mini TV screens. There was also beeping from the machines and lights and they were like music and Christmas lights rolled into one. The talking faces were along for the ride and the blood pressure numbers kept rising and falling like ocean waves on repeat. The ocean was clean and replaced the blood with painkillers and fluids in IVs. Dirty insides were getting clean and it was lucky because there would be little infection and everything would feel all right.

He could breathe a bit better and his heart was smooth. It was going to be better in the morning but it would also be messy. They would have questions and not enough answers. The blue scrubs and masks would all stand in a line like a firing squad and ask questions to his face and he needed to give them answers. Truth was tricky and it made things sticky. It wasn't worth it to be honest.

They were cutting and fixing and repairing the blood wires and body circuits. Robots would do a better job like in the movies. His stomach hurt, but he felt fine.

It's okay.

His body hurt and he didn't have enough blood, but he'd be fine.

It's over.

The wind howled, and the wind blew. He fell asleep and this time it was good.

* * *