Robert Steward teaches English as a foreign language and lives in London. He is currently writing a collection of short stories, several of which have appeared in online literary magazines, including Scrittura, New Pop Lit, Across the Margin, Adelaide and The Foliate Oak.
The Bloods
I’m not scared. Why should I be scared? It’s just a blood test. A pinch, a prick, a slight scratch as the nurse says. The smudge of red lipstick on her tooth doesn’t fill me with the greatest of confidence. Let’s hope she’s more adept with a syringe than makeup. The thought gives me the jitters. I should’ve made a run for it in the waiting room, should’ve rebooked it for another time, kicked it into the long grass. But my name flashed on the monitor with a piercing SCOTT PARKER, PLEASE GO TO THE TREATMENT ROOM over the intercom.
‘Is it just a cholesterol check or the full bloods today?’ the nurse asks, interrupting my self-reproach.
‘The full bloods.’
Two whole tubes of blood. How big I can’t say. Never dare look. Just hear her change the vial.
‘Which arm would you prefer?’ She pulls on a pair of latex gloves as if she’s about to commit murder.
‘This one’s fine.’ I roll up my sleeve. Offering her the closest is simpler. Less risk of… I don’t know. What could go wrong? She can’t find the vein? She breaks the syringe? She goes berserk and stabs me to death? Irrational, really. I suspect I’ve got trypanophobia—a fear of injections. I display all the symptoms: sweating, shaking, dizziness. Affects people with a sensitive temperament or trauma. Certainly had my share of negative experiences in this doctor’s surgery. Can’t count the number of chocolate biscuits I’ve demolished to save me from fainting. Once I actually went completely blind. Couldn’t see my fingers or anything.
‘I’m just going to disinfect the skin.’ The nurse swabs the inside of my elbow with alcohol.
My vein hides at the touch and a firework fizzes through my chest. I try to distract myself by focusing on the room: the medicine cabinets, the vaccine refrigerator, the examination couch. But it doesn’t help. Everything reminds me of the sharp stainless-steel hypodermic needle, which in my mind is the size of an Olympic javelin.
‘There you are,’ the nurse says, slapping a plaster on my arm.
What? But I didn’t feel a thing. All that carry-on for nothing!
‘Thanks.’ I inspect my arm, incredulous.
‘You’re welcome.’ The nurse smiles, tossing her gloves into the bin.
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