Sterile Swab to the Eye by Jaime Campbell

He stood there.
     Finally, after days of stubborn refusal he stood there in the clinic, rooted to the spot. Anxious. His toes curling. His sticky unclipped nails cutting deep into the sole of each shoe and he was bigger now but only in size. His shoulders rounding over the past year, slumping forward now so he stood like laundry, like dirty washing. The lines cut deep into his brow now a permanent frown, the laughter lines no longer smiling. Gouged, as if with a spoon.
     With each passing week, each month he’d hunch, he’d stoop that little bit more. The weight pulling on him, pulling him down that little bit further. Regrets now rippling through him as he stood there in the clinic, rooted to the spot. Wishing he hadn’t done it, wishing he’d fought the urge now as he stood, fused to the moment, a countdown of anxiety with the cast-iron fear to move. The salt-water indignation of it all.
     Feeling guilty.
     Hands frozen, knuckles white like bone as he stood holding up the rolls of his stomach, balls slapped into the cold clam of his hand with damp resignation as she moved in to inspect the rash below, “This is me, this is what I am.”
     Stuck to the spot in the clinic, willing himself on to just run out. Escape.
     Tuesday morning, alone with a nurse.
     His trousers, underwear surrendered as she carefully inserted a sterile swab straight into the eye.
     In and out with pilot reflexes and he stared into the strip-lights, blinding his vision just to avoid her caramel smile. Turning his head to read a wall chart, read the label on a bottle, anything to dull the feeling, change the mood. Stood impotent in the centre, frozen, holding himself still.
     Flaccid.
     A little broken now, regretful.
     Frightened to move.
     Forced there by action, by choice and the memory, days before when he just wanted a little company. Finally a little touch. Warmth of skin again after so long alone. When he fucked a prostitute in a red room, tired of jacking off. Lonely at porn.
     Blunt lead numbly slicing at rose petals and “Oh my God! Jesus I’m coming!”
     Until the point where she tells him to just stop, “I’m going on top because you’re too fucking heavy!” A nameless woman with one eye on the clock, fighting to breathe under the weight of him.
     And he knew that this was the moment. That this was the seed as she rolled him over like bacon so he stood, indignant, his stomach rippling. A year before he was thinner, leaner, better looking back then. When he was happy.
     When she was around, his soft vanilla girl, and he wanted to be back there. Be himself again, a year ago. Be the man he was.
     But there in the red room, flipped over like bacon, stomach rippling, he started to work out.
     The snap decision to exercise.
     Surrounded by the secret memories of a thousand married men he tried to lift his weight through the elbows, up through the hands.
      - One.
     Grunt. The sound seeping out as he tried to impress her.
      - Two.
     Strain. And she just walked out, flicking her head back like a bird.
      - Three.
     Complete collapse and he slumped to the floor like dirty laundry, the sweat congealing like wax.
     They threw him out onto the street semi-naked and he lay there, conscious of the rolls of his stomach rippling for all the world to see. When she was around he was lean. Fitter back then.
     He stood there in the clinic, rooted to the spot. Forced there by choice and the salt-water indignation of it all. Stood there in the spotlight, balls in hand. Trousers down in the clinic at 10:49am and he was hungry, he hadn’t eaten, couldn’t piss, couldn’t shit.
     Anxious.
     The fear of what he’d caught like a glass slowly cracking as earlier, examining the rash in a shaving mirror he looked out to his film collection that spilled out into the hall. “Before I had those I was thinner”, his obsession growing, swelling like a rag in the water. Remembering back a year. Remembering when she was still around and all the action movies he’d sat through since. All those nights of chef’s lonely-heart meals for one, cock in hand sat waiting for the next girl to pop-up on MTV. Or just drinking, hanging out of the window half-cut just to feel the cold on his face, pulling on the last collar of a cigarette before flicking out the stub to join a twelve month hill of ash below. Always a drink in hand to congratulate him with each sip, each glass an Oscar of thank-yous to kill the feeling as he sat, as he slumped. No longer feeling the sheer fireworks of being alive now that she’d gone.
     His soft, vanilla girl.

He stood there in the clinic, shaking a little but controlling it well, “There’s no need to be nervous”, she smiled, her eyes like clear water, “It’ll all be over in a second.”
     And it made him feel better somehow, the care in her voice, like each hello from the old girl in the launderette who pitied him with kindness, or each youthful voice through the phone as he ordered the same thing from the menu again. Made him feel included. Less alone somehow now she was gone.
     Never coming back.
     His soft, vanilla girl.
     But it hurt.
     Piercing hurt like the heart ripped open to show that the city was just a shell without her. The pulse merely a beat.
     And he only smiled now in nostalgia, wrapping himself in the warm quilt of memory as he stood there, rooted to the spot. Unclipped nails cutting deep into the sole of each shoe and he clung to the wall like a vine as she moved in with a sterile swab, straight to the eye. Pilot reflexes but it stung.
     Having to explain this to her. The red room, where he caught it and all the scratching since. The salt-water indignation of it all but she looked up to him, smiling sympathetically as she slipped a swab straight into the eye, “There’s no need to be nervous”, she smiled, her eyes like clear water, “it’ll all be over in a second.”
     And it made him feel better somehow, the care in her voice, like each hello from the old girl in the launderette who pitied him with kindness, or each youthful voice through the phone as he ordered the same thing from the menu again.
     It made him feel better somehow.
      - Three
     Cared for. Like there was someone listening, even though he hadn’t said a word.
      - Two
     Gave him a little confidence, a little push to look forward. To move on, now that she’d gone, his soft, vanilla girl.
      - One
      “Perhaps I could buy you a drink?” he beamed, lost in the moment, confident again, his eyes on full flare.
      “I am kind of busy,” she clicked, looking up, sterile swab in hand, a snigger fighting hard to sneak out.
     And they paused, nothing spoken as she composed herself, trying hard to not let the laughter seep through. His head rolling with embarrassment, feet firmly rooted to the floor of the clinic, trousers, underwear surrendered as her snigger slowly turned from discomfort to laughter, lightening the mood. And he had no more defence, no shield or armour to stop fighting the fact that she’d gone, his soft, vanilla girl and he sniggered, his stomach picking up on the rhythm to bounce.
      “You’ll get the results in a about a week”, she laughed.

Three minutes later and still laughing, he was pulling up his trousers ready to face things.
     To step back into the ring.
     From the red corner, seconds out and counting.
     Ding-Ding.

About the author:
Based in Manchester, England, Jaime is currently completing his first novel 'Harmonica', and compiling the book 'Everyday Swimmer', a series of short stories and snapshots written during his Master's Degree in creative writing. To read a selection of his work, head to http://www.2-37am.co.uk/snapshots - He can be contacted on jaime.campbell@2-37am.co.uk