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08 March 2012 @ 03:01 pm
Ritual  
Lay out the tools.

Sanitize the digit. Tool ready. Pen uncapped and prepared. Notebook turned to correct page. Correct day. Correct time. Strip inserted and prepared. Everything clean, sanitized for my protection. All systems are go.

*jab*

The tool does the job, from a pinprick comes a bloom of red. Squeeze the digit from the bottom up. Watch it grow. Have enough? Touch the strip, set the technology ablaze with life.

The results come back. Always a three digit number. Always. The results are recorded in the notebook, forever to be cataloged and reviewed at a later date.

Consult the chart. Read the arcane gauge. Prepare for the alchemy to come.

Swab and strip are set aside, ready for disposal. The technology and tool are returned to their case, ready for the next use. Now is time for alchemy, for medieval techniques to do the job my body no longer can do.

Roll the vial, warm the liquid and mix the sediment into useful life. Swab the top, sanitized for my protection, destroy the germs that have grown since the last use. Open the needle, uncap and prepare. Pull back the plunger, saturate the liquid with air and pull back. Watch the liquid fill the chamber. Slowly, like two lovers meeting after a long absence.

Pull back the correct amount. No more, no less. Except for me. Always a little more, because I believe in the over/under and you never know if you'll wind up over, or under.

Pop the air bubbles. Embolisms are bad, mmmkay? Not that I'd care, but a few others might take exception. Pinch more than an inch. Easy to do on me.

Swab the skin, hold the needle, and lock a target.

*jab*

The needle finds its mark. No flinching. There's no pain when you stick a needle into dead nerves, unresponsive flesh. I have major surgery to thank for that. The miracle of modern medical science that's turned me into what I am now.

Press the plunger, watch the mixture sink into the subcutaneous tissue and enter the blood stream regulating things that my body should be able to when it's healthy. Except that it's not healthy anymore, and will never be again. I am not whole. I am diminished. I am missing pieces. Many, many pieces.

Break the needle, cap the syringe, dispose of it all. Return the tools and medications to their rightful place, to stand as silent as sentries until their next call to service in the next few hours.