The steel of the gun barrel feels cold on my lips. Well, it might feel cold if I could feel anything. I suffer from hereditary sensory and autonomic neuropathy type IV. It’s a very long and annoying phrase. Most people tune out before I even get a chance to describe it. I’d call it Cantfeelshit-itis, given the taxonomic choice. But I’m not the naming rare diseases guy.
Initial reactions to this news are usually that I’m some sort of superhero, or could at least make a killing as a boxer. Sadly, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Anyone with heredi- blahblahblah is in constant life threatening danger from not knowing when they’re in pain. Something as small as a cut on the foot could lead to infection if ignored. This of course becomes an amputation, or worse, death. If I were actively pushing the physical limits of pain, I’d literally be dead before I knew it. So, no ring girls or stopping bank heists for me. There’s barely trips to the grocery store for me.
The gun is in my mouth because living in constant fear of death sucks. There’s no sense in making long term plans when the guys with eight-year diplomas say statistically, you’ll be lucky to make it to your thirties. I’m defying science and God by breathing right now. Just because I can’t feel physical sensation doesn’t mean I can’t feel emotional ones. Disappointment, dread, depression. These are things that I feel. And if I can get up the nerve to actually pull the trigger, I can stop feeling those too.
Not too many would mourn my passing, either. A handful of tinny voices and pixelated avatars from the online games I play might take pause, but they could hold an in-game funeral to deal with their digital grief. Maybe the developers could sell a little ornate coffin and headstone for $2.99 as part of their “In Memorium” DLC. Not many chances at developing real-life relationships with my condition.
Don’t even get me started on romantic relationships. I’ll never know a soft caress or a passionate kiss. There have been some attempts at intimacy with a few girls in high-school, but eventually comes the age old question, “Are you ready to take things to the next level?”
There is no next level for me. Cindy in Freshman year said kissing me was like kissing a corpse. It’s not my fault I didn’t know what to do. In tenth grade I tried again with a girl named Beth, whose face I evidently tried suck clean off her skull. Call it overcompensation. By Senior prom, I had figured out how to fake enough to finally get to pants-off time, and there it was. Amy Lankford and I tried to “take things to the next level”. It was then that I discovered the one thing I couldn’t fake. I have since tried every little blue, purple, white, double-dipped, rainbow-colored fuck pill under the sun. Drugs just work funny on me. Extremely delayed response, or sometimes none at all. One can guess which the dick pills were.
So maybe it seems really shallow that I’m on the precipice of suicide just because I can’t get my hog juiced, but it’s not just that. It’s all of the things that come with romance. Love, affection, basic companionship. I can’t ask a woman to spend the rest of her life with me if I can’t offer her physical intimacy. It wouldn’t be fair.
Can’t get a dog either. I don’t have anyone close enough to pawn one off onto in case I bite it. Maybe it could get a few free meals from me before I start to smell enough that the neighbors call the cops, and the little bugger gets taken to the pound.
I’ve given this quite a bit of thought. Or maybe not. I’m tired of thinking. Tired of the questions. Questioning myself and my purpose, trying to find that one ray of sunshine that makes it worth carrying on to the next day. One sleek little piece of metal fired out of a bigger piece of metal and there’s no more questions. Wondering about purposes or people. Or women. But what I wouldn’t give to feel the hope of romance one last time. Even if it wasn’t real. One simple date, before it all starts going downhill and we have to ask ourselves if we’re “ready to take things to the next level.”
I’m deep in this fanciful reverie when it catches my attention from the table I had decided to leave my decomposing body leaned up against. The morning paper. It’s been folded over, leaving open the Lonely Hearts section. In bold print it says:
Desperate To Find A Connection?
Not having any luck with big city dating? Feel awkward out on the town?
At the end of your rope and ready to give up on love once and for all?
Petite brunette, new in town and not really used to the social scene.
I’m a bit of a homebody, but a great cook and conversationalist.
Come over to my place and let me have you for dinner!
555-6296
I pull the cold steel barrel out from between my teeth.
***
I’m at Danielle’s door with a half-dozen roses in my hands. I had the florist carefully de-thorn them, in case I squeeze them too hard out of nervousness. Nothing left to do but ring the doorbell.
I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t love at first sight. She’s average height, early thirties, average looking, brown eyes and hair, normal waistline, normal-sized tits. But there’s something about the way she bounced on her tiptoes when she opened the door for me. Her eyes sparkled and nose crinkled when she smiled to say hello. Like we were long lost friends. Like we were… soulmates.
I bet I look like the biggest slack-jawed hillbilly on Earth when I introduce myself. “Hey, I’m Ron.”
Her lips part and her smile grows before she replies, “Well, like I said on the phone, I’m Danielle. But you can call me Dani, if you want.” Her voice is silk and Southern honey. If a Georgia peach could talk, it would sound like Dani. She ushers me in with a wave, “Come on in.” Even her walk is hypnotizing as I follow her through the house. A tomboyish gait with a slight lilt, as if she’s about to start skipping at any moment. I can picture her as a child in overalls, on her way to go play next to a creek or some other rural shit. Haybales. That would be perfect.
She seats me at a short, round table that has been perfectly set for two. The roses I brought are clipped short and placed into a long stem vase, then placed as a centerpiece. The whole thing feels like a quaint Parisian outdoor café, or at least how I’d imagine. Like I’ve done a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of one with the Eiffel tower in the background before.
“Wine?” She asks before pulling a pair of goblets from an overhead cupboard.
“Sure. So, I like your accent. Where are you from?”
“Waxahachie,” Dani says, pouring the drinks from behind a marble-topped island bar. “It’s in Texas, near Dallas. You’ve probably heard of that city.”
“Yeah, Friday Night Lights and all that.”
“Oh, my God! It’s life down there! If you ain’t playin’, you’re cheerin’.”
Despite never being a football guy, I chuckle. “Nice. What else is there to do in a town with a name like Waxahachie besides toss the pigskin?”
“Well, there’s a drive-in theater about fifteen miles away, which is practically next door in Texas,” she says with a playful, half-grin. “That small town stuff is why I had to move away. It’s like one of those TV dramas down there, where everyone knows who’s screwin’ who. Only with more meth. And sometimes they’re cousins,” she arches an eyebrow, but the conspiratorial smile stays in place.
I genuinely laugh out loud at her last quip. “I saw in your ad that you’re new in town. How long have you been here in Chicago?”
“Been here nigh on two months. How about you?”
“I’ve been here nigh on a coon’s age.” I grin, attempting to replicate her twang.
“Oh, my gawd,” she drawls the last bit out, coyly. “Are you makin’ fun of me?” Her eyes go wide in mock surprise, still sparkling.
The banter goes back and forth for the rest of evening, moving between bouts of teasing and genuine getting to know each other. It’s an effortless verbal waltz. She tells me of her family and childhood in Waxahachie, as well as her career as a surgical tech. Of course, I’ve been more cagey about my history due to my condition. Somewhere in the middle of our discussion, she’s handed me a plate of chicken and cheese spaghetti, which I’ve gnawed halfway through.
“Is your food okay?” Dani asks.
Everything about me wants to tell that little white lie. The ones we tell to save people’s feelings, to just say that the meal is great, but the truth comes spilling out of me. It must be the delayed effect of five glasses of wine. “Honestly, I can’t taste anything. It’s not your fault, I have a condition where I can’t sense things. It’s called hereditary sensory and auto-”
“nomic neuropathy type IV.” She finishes the sentence along with me. Again, her wide eyes shine. This time out of curiosity. “I’ve only ever heard of that. Wow! You’re -”
“A freak?” I cut her off, trying not to let my grimace show through.
“I was going to say unique. I mean, I know that it’s a huge issue for health. I just never thought I’d meet someone like you. You’re perfect for tonight!”
“Perfect for…?” I trail away. It’s right around this time that I notice she has no plate in front of her. Why hasn’t she been eating?
“So wait, you’re telling me you’re not…?” Dani mimics putting a finger gun to her head and clicks her tongue.
“How did you know that?” I ask, stunned.
“Well it is the Lonely Hearts section you got my number from. Nobody who answers those are in a good place. I even used all of the key phrases, like end of your rope, give up,” she drags out her last line as if it explains everything. “Have you for dinner?”
Holy. Shit.
“It’s not exactly like I can come out and advertise for it. It worked for that guy in Rotenburg. And it’s not as bad as leavin’ this world alone. You could be a part of somethin’ special. A part of me. Forever. I know you felt somethin’ here.”
“Nononono. Listen,” I say once I’ve grasped the situation. “I’m not fully opposed to what you’re proposing. You’re right. It is - um - interesting. Me not being able to feel anything. You being… what you are. What are the odds the two of us would find each other?” I pause to collect my thoughts. “It’s gotta be destiny.”
The confusion and disappointment dissipate from Dani’s eyes. “I’m so glad you’re on board with all of this,” she giggles in relief. “And your condition explains a lot. I was wonderin’ when the drugs were gonna kick in, but it turns out you don’t need them at all!”
“The drugs?” I say, before my face hits the half-full plate of spaghetti.
***
It takes a moment to remember where I am when I wake. The table setting in front of me is worthy of a Michelin star. A candelabra sits atop linen cloth, beside simple but elegant bone china. Low light from the flames could come across as ominous, but in this scene, are more romantic. The silverware is a different story. It looks like it would be less at home in a dining room than it would a surgical theater.
I hear Dani’s sultry drawl behind me. “I thought you might want to see this.” When she appears in my line of vision, she is wearing scrubs and a surgical mask. Her hands move down to my right leg, which has been laid bare, propped up, and stretched out. “Take a deep breath,” she instructs.
Her fingers lightly pry into a long cut made to the side of my shin, then pull the skin away from bone and muscle in a rectangular swatch from knee to ankle. A thin layer of slick, pink fascia separates as she degloves my lower leg. Dani produces a scalpel which she manipulates deftly, my skin putting up the weakest resistance to its edge. She looks at me when she is finished. Worry lines her brow, but curiosity makes her eyes dance.
“Are you okay?”
I realize that my mouth is open, and with some focus, I can hear the slam of my heavy heartbeat. It’s all so surreal, the only way I can reply is to nod.
“Good!” She smiles genuinely. “I know this can be a little much, but you have such a unique opportunity. I wanted you to get a little taste before I let you decide. Do you want me to keep going, or do you want the knockout drugs?”
I shake my head slowly and tilt my head forward, urging her to continue.
She sets back to work, slicing away the soleus and gastrocnemius, better known as the calf muscles. The rest of the leg muscles follow, and special care must be taken for the peroneal and not one, but two tibial arteries. They are clamped, tied off, shortened and re-routed along with their returning veins. Dani is more than capable at each of these delicate procedures. She lays the strips of meat into a thin bed of sea salt, then a bath of herbs and olive oil.
There is nothing left but stripped bone between my lower leg joints. Dani raises up to place her meal on the countertop.
“I have to grab a couple more things before we’re done,” she says, then disappears behind me. Moments later, her lithe hands slip a surgical mask over my face. “We have to cut away the bare bones and wrap up the amputation if we don’t want it to get infected. You don’t want to inhale the dust either, so I got you this.”
“Infection? Why? Aren’t you going to kill me tonight?”
“If that’s what you want, just say the word.” Dani leans close to my face so her next words are purrs in my ear. “But I can make this last much, much longer…” I jump slightly as the room is filled with the whirring sound of an electrical bone saw.
Looking down, I notice that I am fully erect.
***
Night after night, I’ve grown shorter, losing bits of body mass to my beloved’s adventurous palate. The last meal was braised ribs, the intercostals seasoned with paprika, chili powder, brown sugar, and kosher salt. This was served with a side of roasted rosemary new potatoes. I wonder if I’ll make an interesting head cheese.
It’s amazing to watch Dani work. And on top of being surgically proficient, especially for a tech, it turns out she’s a bit of a mechanical engineer. A biphasic cuirass ventilator wraps around my open chest. After every artificial aspiration, the dialysis machine kicks on with its series of clicks, bathing the exposed organs in my blood and sucking it back in before the next exhalation. The two machines integrated through pure Southern girl genius.
The clear plastic shell of the cuirass allows me to see me own ballooning lungs with every breath drawn. I can’t observe the heart directly, it’s protected by a sac called the pericardium. Dani taught me that. But I can see the membrane quiver with the lub-dub motion of the heart before it disappears under the wash of cleansed blood.
I swear I’m not crazy. The conclusion was inevitable, but being able to choose is just so empowering. Especially when I choose to give everything I am for love. I never thought I’d end up this way, but I never imagined I’d find someone worthy of this level of commitment. This ultimate and entire commitment. So, you ask if I’m ready to take things to the next level? You bet I am. I’d better be.
Because tonight we do the sweetbreads.
This is a revised version of a story originally written for a collaborative project on Wattpad, The Decameron 2.0, a modern update of Giovanni Boccaccio's collection of novellas. I highly recommend checking out some of the other stories in the link as well. The image used for this story came from Pixabay.
