The "school epiphany" thing always fascinates me, because my life was so very much down a different road. By the time I was eighteen, I was a hundred and three. In certain ways, I had to make myself get younger as I got older. Travel helps with that, a lot of it.

One thing I was very naive about at eighteen was suicide. I didn't know you were supposed to slash vertically, so I went horizontal. Deep, but it slowed things down. The water got pretty frickin' pink, though.

Sail, I can't donate blood for that same reason, even if they'd take my blood without the other reasons to not take it (allergies, et al). I moved back to the States in 1981, but we were back and forth to Europe seven or eight times between '81 and '93. And we're carnivores.

I was still fairly naive at 18. But not like this little girl -- damn.

I couldn't be a cutter. OD'ing was the way I tried, and it was accidental. I (morbid much?) crack myself up remembering my friend J. telling me about how I froze the ER doc out: "Even fucked up, I am smarter than you! Don't PATRONIZE me, you asshole!"

Of course, then I walked into a wall, so maybe the impact was negated.

I'd quit donating blood even before they came down with that rule for other reasons (namely, I tend to get very woozy unto passing out) so it didn't have that much impact on me. Still, it kinda sucks to have the option totally taken away.

But, that doesn't mean I don't have scars from life. Some of them aren't visible.

Bloodless

They’re called Rocorro racing seats. They curve around your shoulders and seem like they’re sheltering you in a velvety embrace. This time, they were my prison. I flailed beneath him, unable to get leverage. In that tight space you wouldn’t think he’d have been able to get my pants off, but he did. It didn’t matter how many times I said “no,” he just kept on. I don’t remember it hurting. There was no blood, no wounds, no bruises, just a puddle of vomit on the asphalt outside when it was over and I could open the car door again.

Young Blood

The doctor-person is new, and looks at her gently.

"This won't hurt. Just like a pinch. Don't look down."

She does look down, because watching the needle slip into her arm and the redness squirt into the tube hurts less than her mother's flinch or her father's tight face. She concentrates on the feel of the metal in her arm, and on not moving.

But she can't concentrate enough to stop the hot tears from sliding down her face.

She takes the lollipop they offer. Refusing it makes the grownups sad, and that's all she does these days, sadden them.

If I was looking for a tag, it would so be "Even fucked up, I'm smarter than you." Erin.

A lighter than expected take on "blood" featuring my detectives from "A Model Citizen", and, well, most of my recent drabbles.

The tie between them is stronger than blood. Stronger even than a maudlin drunken promise made to the girl’s father one St. Patrick’s Day(If he had known the bastard was gonna hold him to it, he’d never have promised anything life and death over cheap, dyed-green pisswater. )

He had some standards, at least he thought so. He’s not so sure now as he spends hour after hour in what used to be his office eyeball to eyeball with a magazine photo of that actor Allyson likes. Foreign guy. Shows off more meat than a butcher’s window, and Tommy thinks he wears makeup, more than just for shine. Actors have changed a lot since Bullitt came out.

“It’s lucky for you I love her, Pretty Boy,” Mallory tells the photo.

Here's my drabble for this week's blood challenge. I was inspired to write it after I read ita's drabble.

"You‘ve got two tries."

"We‘ll see what we can do," the man responds.

"Are you a phlebotomist?" The mother gives her five-year old a stern look in response to this question but remembers the bruises and says nothing.

"Yes." The man tries to smile.

"Good. Doctors always mess this up. You have two tries, then I’m leaving," this time more sternly.

A few minutes later the girl is smiling brightly with a bandage on her arm and a green lollipop in her mouth. "Thanks. You did a good job," she tells the man, who looks very relieved to be leaving.

She licked his neck, long and deliberate strokes. Raising one hand, she pinned his head away from her, digging her palm into his damaged face.

She bit - not to suck, but to tear. A stroke downward, slicing across the jugular, and then across to either side laying the neck open, flaying flesh from bone and tendon, ripping veins and arteries alike.

Sluggish second-hand blood pooled in the waste of his neck. She kneed him once in the gut, driving through soft flesh and cracking bone, and dipped to drink again.

That would teach him not to poach her territory.

Remind me never to take the last piece of lemon cake when your around, m'kay?

Incompatible

They bring me the news after three rounds of tests, all of which leave me swollen, allergic, more determined than the test before. I either don't want to hear it or I don't understand; I'm too young to know better.

"Incompatible? A kidney is a kidney. I have two - they both work. He needs one. Take it."

Explanation, technico-medical jargon. The blood-draw sites are purple, oozing - no pre-test antihistamines.

Incompatible with his needs. If it's any consolation, I can give blood if they do find a kidney. I'm o-negative.

No, it's no consolation. No consolation at all.

Incompatible.

Ouch. Good one, Deb.