White

Blood. It's interesting how little I knew about it before. I thought it flowed from the vein in a slow trickle. After all, after years of circulating along the same paths, she should have learned calm. Dignity. But no.

I always look at the needle the nurse inserts into my arm. I'm always just as surprised when she undoes the tourniquet. Red then spurts out in a steady line. It reminds me of the light of those pinpoint lasers that middle schoolers play with. In a few seconds, it fills another vial. The pressure of a cotton swab. "There, there," the woman in the apron says with her professional, reassuring smile.

My blood fills the glass vials every day. Is that why I'm getting weaker? How much of me, how much of my energy is in that red? Will the frog-like smiles of the nurses finally kill me, drop by drop? And say, "There, there."

I was strong when they brought me in. I remember my fists could bang loudly against the plastic windows. White windows, white cabinets, white pillows... White. Everything white! I hate the white that surrounds me here on all sides. Too weak to even turn my head, I have no escape. Even I myself am almost white now, I can see it in my hands. As if this damn purity has swallowed all other colors!

They say here that white is beautiful. Pure. The priest, a fat chubby man who comes to speak to us about the power of prayer and the meaning of suffering, keeps repeating that heaven and angels are white. I don't want to believe it. If you die amidst white, then things should be different. Isn't that right? I wish the sky were yellow. There's nothing yellow here. You're not allowed to bring flowers, an egg looks like it's made of only egg white, visitors dress as if for a funeral. As if they were already getting ready. Maybe they're right.

But my heaven won't be yellow. Because God won't hear me, he doesn't come here. If he saw us, he wouldn't be able to sit calmly on his throne at the sound of the girl they brought in yesterday crying. I heard her at night—quiet, pillow-muffled squeals, desperately suppressed sobs... I don't know why she's there. I didn't ask. "What's wrong?" sounds out of place when the answer can only be, "I'm dying." She'll stop soon. Everyone cries at first.

The doctor comes in. The white of his coat... I'd hit him if I could raise my arm. If I had the strength to think I wanted to clench my fist. I don't. He smiles back, encouragingly, stupidly. Do they teach them that in medical psychology lectures? He stares at the blank pages, says something I don't understand. His voice is also colorless, pure and sterile. "How are you feeling?" "Where has your will to fight gone?" I don't bother to answer. He won't understand that my determination, my will to live, has dissolved into the white. Vanished, like a stone covered in snow. And what? Should I ask the doctor to bring me something yellow? Talking is such an effort... Besides, he's already passed me by. He stands over this new girl, smoothly lying about hope. I wonder, she doesn't ask any questions. She gave up quickly. She has no choice anyway, but... one night isn't much. I struggled with my own thoughts for a week. Seven days to sum up twenty years. To come to terms with myself. A farewell.

A new intern comes to draw blood. She doesn't have that characteristic, artificially reassuring look on her face yet. She smiles, as if frightened. Funny, she's afraid to hurt me! She's young, probably younger than me. Could I stick a needle into someone's skin? I don't know. But she should be determined. Her eyes, beneath her ash-blond fringe, look apologetic. I force myself to make the effort and offer her my forearm. Let her know I don't blame her. That such a sting is nothing new to me. It's clearly visible on my hands.

The cold of the evaporating disinfectant, the warmth of that terrified girl's fingers. The pressure of the tourniquet being tightened around my arm. The sting. I watch as the intern attaches the vial to the needle. The dry click of the tourniquet being released. There's no blood. "Oh, sorry!" – now she's startled. She's put the needle in wrong, it happens. I almost want to reassure her. Tell her I've gotten used to the needles. To just do it again. She knows it. She withdraws the needle. We both realize her mistake at the same time. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she repeats, jumping, almost panicked now, while I watch, fascinated. A flash of insight... as if I'd suddenly realized something important. As if I'd noticed something I'd been seeing all along.

The girl hadn't tightened the tourniquet. The moment she withdrew the needle, the blood that had been previously stemmed began to flow. She furiously urinated on the white duvet and sheet. It spreads into a patchy stain, claiming every inch of fabric for herself. Devouring the hated sterility. I feel myself smiling. I haven't done this in so long... A shout of victory... A marathon runner who crosses the finish line first throws up their arms and shouts. Tells the world they've won. The exhausted lungs muster one last effort, and then the athlete collapses onto the track. Nothing else matters.

And I won. In that very moment, I defeated white. I stained it, that sanctity. I desecrated its purity! This sharp-edged red is my last, silent cry. A cry of victory!