The First Cut

8 Kirsten

The first thing Kirsten saw when she opened her eyes was a long curving crack in the white ceiling. It looked like an island coastline or the crude outline of a whale. Her mouth was dry and tasted bad. With difficulty, she swallowed, but the vile taste wouldn’t go away. Around her she could hear only quiet sounds: a steady hissing; a high-pitched, rhythmic bleeping. She couldn’t smell anything at all.

She moved her head and glimpsed shadowy figures sitting beside her bed. It was difficult to focus from so close, and she couldn’t make out who they were. Then she became aware of muffled voices.

“Look, she’s coming round…she’s opened her eyes.”

“Careful…don’t touch her…she’ll wake up in her own time.”

And someone bent over her: a faceless figure all in white. Kirsten tried to scream, but no sound came out. Gentle hands touched her brow and pushed her shoulders firmly back onto the hard bed. She let her head fall on the pillow again and sighed. The voices were clearer now, like a finely tuned radio.

“Is she all right? Can we stay and talk to her?”

“She’ll talk if she wants to. Don’t push her. She’s bound to be feeling disoriented.”

Kirsten tried to speak but her mouth was still too dry. She croaked, “Water,” and someone seemed to understand. An angled straw neared her mouth and she sucked greedily on it. Some of the water dribbled down the edges of her dry, cracked lips, but she managed to swallow a little. That felt better.

“I must go and fetch the doctor.”

The door opened and hissed shut slowly.

“Kirstie? Kirstie, love?”

She turned her head and found it easier to focus this time. Her mother and father sat beside her. She tried to smile but it felt like it came out all crooked. Her teeth felt too big for her mouth. Her mother looked beside herself, as if she hadn’t slept for days, and her father had dark, heavy bags under his eyes. He looked down on her with a mixture of love and relief.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said.

He reached out and she felt his soft hand close on hers, just like when they used to go for walks in the woods when she was a child.

“Oh, Kirstie,” her mother said, taking out a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbing her eyes. “We were so worried.”

Her father still said nothing. His touch told Kirsten all she needed to know.

“What about? Where…”

“Don’t try to speak,” her father said softly. “It’s all right. It’s all over now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Her mother was still patting away at her eyes and making little snuffling noises.

Kirsten rolled her head back again and stared at the scar on the ceiling. She licked her dry lips. Sensation was returning to her bit by bit. Now she could catch the clean, white, antiseptic smell of the hospital room. She could also feel her body. Her skin felt taut, stretched too tightly over her flesh and bones. In places, it pinched at her as if it had snagged on something and puckered.

But worse than that was the burning ache in her breasts and in her loins. She had no sensation of the tight flesh there, just of a painful, throbbing absence.

The door opened and a white-coated man walked over to her. She flinched and tried to roll away.

“It’s all right,” she heard someone say. “The doctor’s here to take care of you.”

Then she felt her sleeve pulled up, and a cool swab touched her arm. She didn’t feel the needle going in, but it made a sharp prick when it slid out. The pain began to recede. Warm, soothing waves came to carry it far out to sea.

Her senses ebbed and the long darkness advanced to reclaim her. As she slipped away, she could still feel her father’s hand in hers. She turned her head slowly and asked, “What’s happened to me, Daddy? My skin feels funny. It doesn’t fit right.”