Free Wetlands by Charlotte Roche

smallest details, asked questions to try to verify things—and now you know more as a result. I learned that from dad. To try to figure things out so thoroughly it makes you puke. Anyway, I’m happy to have seen the pieces before they’re cremated along with the other medical waste. I don’t repack the pieces into the baggie. I just put the baggie on top of them and push it down so it sticks to them. I put the box top with the pieces of flesh and baggie on it on the metal nightstand. My fingers are covered with blood and goop. Wipe them on the bed? That would make a real mess. Not on my tree-top-angeloutfit, either. Same mess. Hmm. Well. It is all stuff from my own body. Even if it’s infected. I lick my fingers off one at a time. I’m always proud of myself when I come up with an idea like that. It’s better than sitting helplessly in bed and hoping somebody happens by with wet wipes. Why should I be disgusted by my own blood and pus? I’m not squeamish about infections. When I pop pimples and get pus on my finger, I happily eat that. And when I squeeze a blackhead and the translucent little worm with the black head comes out, I wipe that up with a finger and then lick it off. When the sandman leaves puslike crumbs in the corners of my eyes, I eat them in the morning, too. And when I have scabs on a cut, I always pick off the top layer in order to eat it.
    I eat my pizza by myself.
    I don’t like eating alone. It scares me. When you stick something in your mouth, you should be able to tell someone else what it tastes like. My ass begins to twitch. What have you learned, Helen? Don’t suffer any more than necessary. Ring the emergency buzzer. Peter comes in and I tell him I need painkillers because the pain is starting up again. He looks confused and says there’s nothing about overnight pain medication on the chart he’s been given. With a big piece of pizza in my mouth I say, “There must be, Robin said all I had to do was ask and I’d get them.”
    This can’t be happening. I finally ask before it gets bad and now I can’t get any for the entire night? Help. Peterleaves to call the doctor at home. He says he doesn’t have the authority to do anything that’s not specifically listed on the chart. I’m feeling sick with fear. I was operated on today and I can’t get any pain medication on the first night? I open both beers with the handle of the fork. I’m one of the few girls I know who can do that. Very practical. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go. I drink the beers down as fast as I can, one after the other. My ass is getting worse and worse, and my insides are cold from the beer.
    Peter, Peter, Peter, hurry up. Bring me medication. I close my eyes. The pain is getting stronger and I’m beginning to cramp up. I know this drill. I cross my hands on my chest and I’m nothing more than my ass.
    I hear him come in and, with my eyes still closed, ask whether I’ll get something.
    “What are you talking about,” says a female voice.

I open my eyes and see a woman in a nurse’s uniform but one that’s a different color from all the others here. The others all wear light blue and she’s in light green. Maybe she had a laundry mishap.
    “Good evening. Please forgive me for disturbing you so late. The rounds took longer than usual today. I’m a candy striper.”
    What? She must have broken out of the psychiatric ward. I just look at her. She must be crazy, I think, and I’ll leave her to believe what she wants. My ass hurts bad. And it’s getting worse. That’s the only thing I could possibly say to her. That would be a great conversation: “I’m a candy striper.” “Yeah, and my ass hurts.”
    I watch her with tired, half-open eyes like a grandmother. It seems to me she talks very slowly—each word seems to echo.
    “That means I’m a volunteer. I try to make things more comfortable for the people here in the hospital. We candy stripers”—there are others!—“run errands for