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The Smile Carolyne King She lies stiffly on her back, sheet tucked neatly under her arms, the wide band of white a bandage around her chest that contrasts sharply to the dark blanket. It is late, yet she cannot sleep. A feeling of panic fills her. She stares down her still form, her body coffined by the stiff blanket that covers her. Her body appears angular in the rigid position it holds. The waxy paleness of her forehead contrasts vividly against the fan of dark hair that flows out to her shoulders. Her arms, placed outside the blanket, are pinioned at her sides, elbows slightly angled allowing her hands to lie folded at her waist. Pale in the insignificant light, her wrists almost disappear against the deep blue of the blanket before the slightly more substantial whiteness of her interlocked fingers. From the point of her elbows, her body creates a still, rigid column that meets the slightly boxy upturn of her feet. Under the smoothing stiffness of the blanket, she appears as an awkward, oblong hexagon. She stares above her, eyes locked on a point of the ceiling. She does not move her head to gaze down her body, past the band of the white sheet. She does not try to wiggle her toes or to flex and stretch her calves, thrusting arched feet at the door. She lies immobile beneath the slight weight of the blanket, feeling the silence and dark press in against her. It restrains her, holds her in rigid place, the air as stiffly confining as a plank of wood. Fabric hisses and the bed stirs beside her. It shudders as he rolls towards her. Springs depress at her side, almost causing her to slide down the incline into his warm skin. He sighs and shrugs his shoulders, moving the blanket fluidly around his form. A knee pushing into her space disturbs the forced rigidness of her position. It breaks the long line of the leg above the knee, leaving an undefined space between the thigh and the upturned toes. Startled, she glances down. Quickly, she averts her eyes, resumes her stare at the ceiling. She cannot look at the rumpled blanket, no longer a fluid unbroken line of leg. Her leg … cut off beneath the knee. The violence of imbalance surprises her; the broken symmetry of her body repels her mind from even the most fragile, tentative touches. She dares not move. She cannot send nerve impulses through her spine, down her thighs, telling her ankles to strain downward and the balls of her feet to curl. She cannot bear for the electrical pulse to spring into the synaptic gap only to remain there—hanging in the void where her leg once was. The intruding knee pulls away. Once again, her body becomes an oblong shape, legs smooth lines leading to upturned toes. “Are you awake?” She does not respond—her mind caught in the gap of her leg; she is separated from the ability to force air through her throat to create sound. He turns on his side to study her, her face a dim profile of forehead, nose, lips, and chin above her blanket-bandaged chest. “Have you been able to sleep at all?” This time, she sighs. Her chest expands abruptly before air pushes out between lips, leaving her chest and body once more still beneath the blanket. “Go back to sleep.” He reaches out a hand, moving it beneath the covers, to noisily make its way to her side. He brushes her forearm with a finger. “Are you going to be able to sleep at all tonight?” Again, she does not answer. He strokes her arm, a long touch from wrist to elbow. It startles her and convulsively, she shudders, muscles tensing beneath her skin. Her feet jump beneath the blanket, and, surprised, she glances down at her legs. “Do you want me to do anything?” She continues to stare wonderingly at her legs, at the distorted blanket that no longer smoothes them into a single shape. “No, go back to sleep.” He sighs. For a moment, a silence exists between them. “Can’t you tell me what happened? I just want to help you.” She stares down at her legs. Her eyes mold the cover around them. Two lines. Two symmetrical contours ending in a messy upturn of blanket. Two legs. Two knees, two shins, two sets of toes. She does not dare to wiggle them yet, but she stares. “I told you. I don’t want to… about it.” “But maybe, if you just… it could help you. I just want to understand.” He moves his knee, pushing it next to her, adding tactile contact. She sees it move under the cover. It lays next to her calf, touches her calf. “you’re… my leg.” “I’m your…! I can touch your leg. I’m not hurting you. I would never hurt you!” His voice rises and reflexively, she shies away from him. Her legs lift and her hips swivel, moving them several inches to the left. She watches her body, its movement directed by some power of its own. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” He strokes her arm, gently, his finger searching for a way through the gap that separates them. “I would never mean to hurt you. You know that.” “I know.” She is quiet, content to watch her body move. To see a whole outline through the covers, both legs miraculously long. Could she have imagined…? No. Quickly, she looks once more at the ceiling. “Won’t you say anything?” His voice intrudes on her quiet contemplation of the ceiling. It forces her eyes down, to again drag over the still form that is her body. She glances at it as if separate from it. There is no familiarity to the column of her torso, her limp hands, the line of her legs. Her eyes settle on her joined hands, fingers interlocked below her waist. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push you on this.” His voice pleads with her, battering at her detachment. It forces its way into her, through the delicate membrane of her ears, pounding into her head. It paralyzes her, holds her still. For a moment, the sounds are separate from any meaning. A conglomeration of noises, they gradually gather significance as they create a pattern of sounds and silences. She loosens her tongue, shifting it in her mouth, touching the roof, curling up and backwards, flexing. She swallows. She forces it to move, to press down and against her teeth. “I don’t know what to say. I just, I just can’t.” He reaches out to her. His finger strokes her ear, tracing the outline of the ridges of membrane and skin, tugging the earlobe before dropping down to the neck, caressing the delicate skin, feeling the steady beat of blood beneath. His hand comes to rest at the base of her neck, cupping the hard line of the bone and the thin covering of flesh. For a moment, she lies quietly, allowing his hand to rest. Then, she swings her legs away from him, sliding from under the blanket. Knees lift and bend, coming to rest over the edge of the bed. She sits, back slumped, elbows on knees, head dragging towards the floor. His arm slides from her neck, down her back, and comes to rest behind her. An inch of white sheet separates his hand from her body. He looks at her, body turned away from him, legs cut off by the edge of the bed. He smiles. |
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by The University of Scranton, Scranton, PA 18510
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last updated: Sunday, 10 August 2008
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