"You tested positive" the nurse said. The blood ran from my face into my feet. Although my eyes were open, like synthesia I saw nothing but the sound of the blood beating at my temples. I was delivered the test results in a department store, without my shoes, and in jeans that weren't even my own. My skin grew cold and foreign.
Cut scene. I don't remember peeling the denim from my legs, pulling my coat around my body, or stumbling into the October air of the parking lot. Minutes tick by and I have no recollection of their existence. In the following weeks, I find that whole chucks of my life go missing. Action.
I sit in the car as the sobs rip through me and leave no part of my body untouched. They pulse through my fingertips, cling to my ribs, draw my thighs toward my chest. They puff into little clouds of steam in the cold, disperse, and are replaced by more tiny clouds. I cry all the way home, bent double, call my lover, beg forgiveness. He talks me down. Says I have nothing to be sorry for.
I waver between periods of eerie silence that sounds almost like peace and inconsolable mourning.
I live through the nightmare of half a dozen doctors visits, a battery of tests, and waiting for more phone calls that once hung up leave me sobbing into my shaking hands. The insides of my elbows turn the color of plums with bruises that bloom in the wake of one blood draw after another. I drop ten pounds in a few weeks. The nurses look at me with chiding eyes and say "You really need to eat, you know. You can't lose any more weight." But food turns to sand in my mouth. I have been hollowed out and I can't seem to fill myself again.