Fiction: Lamb
my stomach is too full of acid to sleep. 1 day late for halloween--
Lamb
She came in with three lacerations, around her skull and lower jaw. Bruises were already welling up around the side of her face, one eye swollen shut. My hands trembled as I made the examination. One arm broken. Three ribs. No skull fractures, but only because the soft cartilage hadn't fused yet. We had to put her on a respirator, because one of the ribs was putting too much pressure on her lungs for her to breathe by herself. I held her hand in the operating room, her whole fist not big enough to fit around my thumb, her one good eye closed against the bright surgical lights. We cut a small hole in her skull, just above her right eye, and the built-up blood flowed out silently, down her new skin and fine, soft hair to pool on the table.
Her mother was sitting in the hallway outside: maybe she was 20, maybe 23, maybe 17. Her hair was greasy to the point of having no color: dark circles under her eyes, muscles twitching randomly. She was slumped against the ground, wearing a too-big gray sweatshirt, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
I gave her seven stitches in her forehead, three to her lower jaw, four on the side of her face, very near to her eye. My hands were shaking when I wrapped up her ribs. When the nurses had taken her away I sat on the chair next to the sink, my head in my hands, staring at the floor, trying to count the flecks in the blue tile and ignore the roaring on the inside of my skull, a thick static of noise and rage. I held my head so my hands wouldn't shake. One of the nurses put a hand on my shoulder.
"Your daughter will be fine," I said to the mother, outside the operating room. She was still slumped against the wall, her pupils dilated to the point of being almost completely black. She had been pretty, I think, but now her teeth were yellow and her mouth looked too wide for her thin face, her eyes black like a shark's. She ran her tongue over her teeth before she spoke.
"She wouldn't stop crying," she said.
"We've given her sedatives, but she'll be in the hospital for at least another few days," I said, "while we check with child services."
Something in her eyes flickered then, those pupils focused on me. "Child services?" she said, her voice low like a hiss.
"It's required with damages to a child this severe," I said. My face was blank but the roaring in my mind was starting up again, a hiss of static that hummed next to my eardrums. I raised my voice to cover it as I said: "It's likely you'll have to speak to police and child services about this."
Her eyes flickered again. "She fell out of bed," she said. "She was sleepin with me, and she wouldn't stop crying, so I got up to get her some formula. She wriggled to the end of the bed, and fell off--"
"The police will be here in a few minutes," I said, my voice even louder. In my head a voice screamed did you like seeing your daughter's skull paint your wallpaper oh god you think you'll get away with throwing that child into a wall she should have died, you should-- and the background static was roaring now, and I spoke quickly to cover it up, to stop that woman from talking. "Stay here in the waiting room."
I walked away quickly, leaving her still slumped against the wall, clutching her cigarettes with both hands. My right hand was shaking.
Susan, the nurse who'd tried to comfort me after the operation, stopped by my office later: her husband had brought her daughter around, still in costume, asleep on his shoulder. She was some Disney princess--Sleeping Beauty, I think--with the long pink dress and crown, her hair falling down his sleeve. It looked like spiderwebs, thin lines of gold that covered her face. I smiled at her, brushed it out of her face, thanked Susan and her husband and told them goodnight.
I got off work at 3. It was dark when I left the hospital, walking down the stairs to my car over in the side lot. There was the usual array of smokers around the front doors. I started my car in silence, fumbling for keys in the darkness. My headlights made a pale slash on the asphalt.
She was at the side of the building, smoking nervously, huddled in on herself. Her greasy hair hung around her face, obscuring her eyes. Right before I hit her she turned and looked at me, and they flashed in my headlights like a deer's.
Lamb
She came in with three lacerations, around her skull and lower jaw. Bruises were already welling up around the side of her face, one eye swollen shut. My hands trembled as I made the examination. One arm broken. Three ribs. No skull fractures, but only because the soft cartilage hadn't fused yet. We had to put her on a respirator, because one of the ribs was putting too much pressure on her lungs for her to breathe by herself. I held her hand in the operating room, her whole fist not big enough to fit around my thumb, her one good eye closed against the bright surgical lights. We cut a small hole in her skull, just above her right eye, and the built-up blood flowed out silently, down her new skin and fine, soft hair to pool on the table.
Her mother was sitting in the hallway outside: maybe she was 20, maybe 23, maybe 17. Her hair was greasy to the point of having no color: dark circles under her eyes, muscles twitching randomly. She was slumped against the ground, wearing a too-big gray sweatshirt, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
I gave her seven stitches in her forehead, three to her lower jaw, four on the side of her face, very near to her eye. My hands were shaking when I wrapped up her ribs. When the nurses had taken her away I sat on the chair next to the sink, my head in my hands, staring at the floor, trying to count the flecks in the blue tile and ignore the roaring on the inside of my skull, a thick static of noise and rage. I held my head so my hands wouldn't shake. One of the nurses put a hand on my shoulder.
"Your daughter will be fine," I said to the mother, outside the operating room. She was still slumped against the wall, her pupils dilated to the point of being almost completely black. She had been pretty, I think, but now her teeth were yellow and her mouth looked too wide for her thin face, her eyes black like a shark's. She ran her tongue over her teeth before she spoke.
"She wouldn't stop crying," she said.
"We've given her sedatives, but she'll be in the hospital for at least another few days," I said, "while we check with child services."
Something in her eyes flickered then, those pupils focused on me. "Child services?" she said, her voice low like a hiss.
"It's required with damages to a child this severe," I said. My face was blank but the roaring in my mind was starting up again, a hiss of static that hummed next to my eardrums. I raised my voice to cover it as I said: "It's likely you'll have to speak to police and child services about this."
Her eyes flickered again. "She fell out of bed," she said. "She was sleepin with me, and she wouldn't stop crying, so I got up to get her some formula. She wriggled to the end of the bed, and fell off--"
"The police will be here in a few minutes," I said, my voice even louder. In my head a voice screamed did you like seeing your daughter's skull paint your wallpaper oh god you think you'll get away with throwing that child into a wall she should have died, you should-- and the background static was roaring now, and I spoke quickly to cover it up, to stop that woman from talking. "Stay here in the waiting room."
I walked away quickly, leaving her still slumped against the wall, clutching her cigarettes with both hands. My right hand was shaking.
Susan, the nurse who'd tried to comfort me after the operation, stopped by my office later: her husband had brought her daughter around, still in costume, asleep on his shoulder. She was some Disney princess--Sleeping Beauty, I think--with the long pink dress and crown, her hair falling down his sleeve. It looked like spiderwebs, thin lines of gold that covered her face. I smiled at her, brushed it out of her face, thanked Susan and her husband and told them goodnight.
I got off work at 3. It was dark when I left the hospital, walking down the stairs to my car over in the side lot. There was the usual array of smokers around the front doors. I started my car in silence, fumbling for keys in the darkness. My headlights made a pale slash on the asphalt.
She was at the side of the building, smoking nervously, huddled in on herself. Her greasy hair hung around her face, obscuring her eyes. Right before I hit her she turned and looked at me, and they flashed in my headlights like a deer's.