Under My Skin

Calamity

"Oh.."

"Yeah.. uh, I'd like to invite you over when things are all settled in, kind of get a homey-feel in the house.. are you busy tomorrow evening?"

"Oh, um.. no, I can't tomorrow.."

"That's fine, no problem, how about Saturday?"

"I can't on Saturday, sorry.."

"No matter.. we'll get together sometime.. it was good to meet you.. if you ever need anything, give me a holler, I'll- here, I'll give you my number. If you ever need anything, you can give me a call.. and maybe we'll find a day to get together" he chuckled awkwardly, grabbing my hand and writing down his phone number on the palm with blue ink.

I bit down on my bottom lip, stiff as a board as he wrote. It took a lot of willpower not to retract the hand on sight.

I don't want this new man to think I was crazy, this is the first time any of the neighbors have even made an effort to talk to me, I don't want to ruin that the minute he meets me.

I read the number aloud back to him, repeating it to myself in my head.

"It was good to meet you.. don't hesitate to give me a call" he smiled and stepped off the porch with his hands in his pockets.

I quickly shut the door, still repeating the numbers in my head while racing to the kitchen sink. I squeezed soap into my hand until it was overflowing, making some sort of mixture, dish soap, and antibacterial, and just started scrubbing with the vegetable brush by the sink. The bristles were sharp and cruel against my skin, but it was the only way I could feel like I was truly removing the ink. So, I kept scrubbing. Scrubbing until my hand was raw, and bloodied, eyes watering and teeth clenched. I held it under the water as it bled.

The last thing I need is something else to wash off my hands. I rinsed the blood away. The number played in my head over and over again like background music as I waited, and even after I had finally written it down.

I kept the hand wrapped in gauze and medical bandage to prevent further issue. With the cooling weather, the skin was drier and cracking, The last thing I want is for my hands to crack or even scrape against the counter, it's just begging for infection. There was a case of necrotizing fasciitis in the state just last year, so if I don't take preventative measures, I'm an idiot.

I've seen it - Blisters, ulcers, black spots on your skin, tissue dying and decaying, it's horrible. One thousand two hundred cases are diagnosed in the states every year, which means if equally divided, there'd be twenty-four in my state alone. Twenty four people, one in each three of whom will die from the bacteria. If untreated, it's six in every ten. That means treated, eight of those infected will die. Untreated, twelve or thirteen.
The bacteria climb into openings as small as bug bites, sometimes not even utilizing any breaks in the skin, and starts to destroy the tissue, muscles, membrane, fat, it eats away at its human host. It could happen to anyone, most cases are in people of good health.

I can almost feel the bacteria on my already broken skin, Crawling, multiplying, searching for a way in. And by god, there are many.

They're already there, I bet. They're already in there, preying on my skin cells, destroying the tissue. I should call the doctor. No, not the doctor, urgent care. Intensive care. What's the most serious, urgent care or intensive care? Intensive, right? I should call intensive care. I could be dying this very moment, I could have contracted flesh-eating bacteria. Some sort of fast-acting one. Is there such a thing? Is that a thing? I really should call the hospital.

My thoughts raced.

I picked up my phone and quickly dialed.

"Hello, this is Kevin Price again"

The woman on the other end of the line sighed, clearly agitated

"What is it this time, Mr. Price?"

"I have reason to believe I've contracted a flesh-eating virus"

"What are your symptoms?"

"No symptoms... it's a feeling, I have a feeling, I can tell"

"Are you experiencing any pain at the site of infection? Any nausea, pus, or discoloration?"

"No.."

"Any signs of infection?"

"No."

"Then why do you believe you've contracted a flesh-eating virus, Mr. Price?"

"I got a cut"

"Is it infected?"

"Not yet"

"When did this happen?"

"Ten minutes ago"

"What's your injury?"

"I scraped my hand... s-skinned it."

"Alright, Mr. Price, then I'm going to have to ask you to hang up. There are people with real emergencies who need to contact us."

"But-"

"Rinse out your cut and contact your primary care if you have any concerns. Have a good day, Mr. Price"

She hung up.

They know me there. I call at least twice a month. Most of them are very short with me, but not all. There's one nurse and one receptionist who were both there when it happened. They saw it firsthand, they watched it happen. They're both very patient. The other people on that shift are all gone; Moved on to other hospitals, practices, medical schools, and retirement. Everyone else that was there that night has moved on and been replaced.
Every time I call them, I find myself praying that it's that receptionist that will answer. Kristen. She always patches me through to Adelaide, the night nurse that I seem to have adopted in as some sort of maternal figure. Between her forties and fifties, short and heavier-set, she comes over often to check in on me. She was a great comfort. Actually, the only comfort. And to me, she's clean. Very clean.