“This is bad. We need to get you stitched up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This cut needs to be stitched. We're going to the hospital.”
“Do I have to?”
“This isn't an argument. Someone has to take care of you.”
Chapter 26
Human Machinery
Detective Knox never understood why hospital walls were painted white. They looked sickly, gave no comfort to the addled, and served as a canvas upon which every germ was visible. His only theory that made sense was that in better places, where care is taken, the cleanliness of pure white was supposed to convey a sense of pride and competence. But in the city, where nothing was ever as it should be, attempts to live up to standards only revealed how far short everything fell. In most places, doctors were sworn to an oath to help heal the sick, but in the city doctors were nothing but mechanics, who kept the human machinery running as long as they could, until replacements were brought in.
Anatomy drawings hung from invisible hooks, peeling back the layers and revealing the true nature of the beast. They were intended to be educational, to illustrate in detail the beauty and mystery making up every person. Detective Knox, however, remained unmoved. That webs of blood and nerve could organize into such exquisite networks, that a clump of cells could create the very nature of consciousness, was in a way a miracle. So much of the art was beyond the grasp of all but the most ardent devotees of the form that they hung like grotesques in the eyes of many of the souls unfortunate enough to sit in their presence.
Detective Knox could see the intricate wonder, as he traced his eyes over the route blood would traverse as it carried the nutrients of his liquor-based diet throughout his body, and ultimately flushed it through the wound he was covering. Rather than be awestruck by sights that went beyond his understanding, he looked at those illustrations as virtual autopsies. In them, he could see the mechanisms of murder, the limitless ways life could be ceased by human hands. His mind had been trained to see death, and even when he knew it was not real, the sensation was too familiar and powerful to ignore.
Kat paced the room, her shoes clicking against the tiled floor, the sound echoing off cold walls. She was more nervous than her husband, sharing his compulsion for control. Their circumstances were in the hands of the hospital staff, a reality that did not satisfy Kat. With each step she took, her husband was losing more and more blood, and in the back of her mind she wondered if he had enough of a heart to continue pumping that much of it to waste.
Those thoughts disturbed her, both because she should not entertain such topics, and because she could not deny there was likely to be some truth to them. She loved her husband, and she believed he loved her in return, but theirs was not a normal romance. While friends and fairy tales talked of whirlwinds, their relationship was more practical. She understood it did not make their love any less real, but it did make her wonder if there was an analogue to love they had discovered, instead of what is commonly known.
Kat's frustration grew as the hands slowly circled the clock, and the bandage wrapped around Detective Knox's hand grew a darker, richer shade of red. She ripped the door open, poking her head into the hallway, looking for anyone who could give them some attention. Kat thought about the alternative, of doing the job herself. She knew the basics of sewing, though it was a skill she seldom used. Her modest abilities should have been enough to make sure her husband did not bleed to death in what was supposed to be a center of healing, but she knew her husband would never let her take on the task. He was as stubborn as she, and preferred to let the professionals do what they were best at.
Time passed slowly, each second stretching out as it was counted, until the last strands of Kat's patience were frayed through. She felt the grasp she held on her composure slipping, and just as it was falling through her fingers, the door opened. The doctor entered. There was no sign of apology on his face. He looked down at the chart, scribbled something with a careless stroke of his pen, and turned his attention to the patient.
“It says here you need a wound stitched up. Let's have a look at it.”
Kat did not stand in his way, but she was not going to let him carry on as though he had not insulted them, nor wasted their time. Her conscience knew better than to get involved, but one of the things she had learned from her husband was to never get taken advantage of. Detective Knox had a penchant for making those around him into better people, often without his knowledge or effort.
“Excuse me, doctor, but my husband has been bleeding out here for an hour while nobody so much as checked on him to make sure he wasn't dead.”
“Ma'am, we do the best we can. If we thought his injury was that serious, we would have gotten to him sooner.”
Despite her age, nothing infuriated Kat more than the use of that title. It was not without merit, but the connotation made her feel either more matronly than her years, or akin to the stock characters from an old-time western movie. In either case, the term did not accurately describe Kat, and being so casually dismissed, even with a term of supposed respect, was a bone of contention.
“Maybe you don't understand, doctor. You can't just leave us alone in a room for that long without at least telling us that there's nothing to worry about. It's disrespectful, and I'm sure you would never put up with it, if you were in our shoes.”
“Like I said, I'm getting to your husband as quickly as I can. Now are you going to let me do my job, or do you want to continue lecturing me?”
“Go ahead.”
The doctor removed the bandage, pulling strings of congealed blood away, exposing the wound. The sight of his own blood did not disturb him, but piqued his curiosity. He was struck by the dedication of the human body to continue sending blood through the open floodgate, when it could have been put to better use elsewhere.
The doctor slid his chair over, scraping trenches into the tiles, spreading powdered remnants of the floor around his feet. He retrieved a small tray, gathering the needle in his hand as he slid back into position. His work was quick, his hands moving with the precision that came from supreme confidence and skill. Kat watched from the side, wondering if the fluidity of his stitching was nothing but careless abandon. The doctor bore none of the hallmarks of focus or effort, and looked as though he was going through the motions of a meaningless, mundane, task.
The needle fell to the floor as the doctor cut the string, racing a drop of blood to the landing point. It landed in silence, a small arc of blood rebounding, staining the dust. The doctor looked at his work, and, satisfied he had done an adequate job, turned his attention back to Kat.
“Your husband will be just fine. You had nothing to worry about.”
“I did, since none of you people saw fit to tell me that in the first place. It's a little bit of common courtesy to let someone who's obviously in distress know that everything will be fine. Wouldn't you agree?”
“I don't deal with patients, ma'am. I just sew them back up.”
“That figures.”
“We're doing the best we can. Look, there's only so many of us to go around, and in case you haven't noticed, this place is booked solid every night. There isn't always time to be nice.”
“That's a lousy apology.”
“Well, it's the only one you're going to get.”
The doctor was done discussing his conduct with Kat, and instead turned back to Detective Knox. He watched his patient as Knox examined the burgeoning scar that closed the wound.