Extracting a Thorn Buried

Waiting to be seen, I examined a thorn deeply embedded in my thumb. I’d received it carelessly trying to regain my balance while exploring a new trail. Things were going great until the damned thorn…

I couldn’t get it out with my fingers or tweezers, and soon realized it wasn’t the only thorn stuck to my body. The thorn on my thumb quickly bore itself deep below my skin – I became nervous. Likewise, the other thorns dipped below my epidermis and became invisible to me. “Maybe they just fell out.”

The doctor greeted me with an oversized smile and walked me to a room. “Sit here while I take a look at your file. I’ll be with you in a few moments.” Her constant smile trailing her as she gently closed the door. While waiting, I reexamined my thumb, impatiently waiting for an answer.

She returned, smile and all. Questions and tests began, revealing thorns all over my body – unrecognized by myself. The doctor showed me X-rays of them. I went back for more examinations while continuing my own at home. Each doctor’s visit revealed something new about the thorns.

“They’re using your blood cells to support themselves – I…don’t know how. Your blood cells are keeping these thorns active somehow.” I didn’t know what she meant, but neither did she. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Her smile began fading.

“They can hear you.” She grew concerned. “I can’t explain it. They’re reacting to your thoughts, your words, movement.” After a few surgeries, her theory was proven correct. “It’s like they’re shifting around to avoid detection, to avoid us. I don’t know how this could happen. I’m so sorry.” The doctor offered, color escaping her face.

I stood naked in front of my mirror each day, poking and probing at body parts I’d long lost care of. Each inch of my body, every crevice and dimple could hold a thorn. They’d become untouchable. The team of doctors still made appointments, but I was more a specimen than patient. I stopped going.

Months passed and I grew tired, lethargic. I hurt everywhere. Getting up in the morning took hours. I bothered eating once a day. The thorns had consumed so much of me. I couldn’t get out of bed, lifting my arm made me vomit, so I cried it out to God.”I’m sick. I hurt. Everything … God, please help me.”  Hoping to at least give myself the push to find answers if God couldn’t. The thorns provided.

Two days later several lacerations appeared on my skin. Through them veins emerged and formed branches all over my body, buds at their tips. Three more days passed before they began blossoming, exposing beautiful flowers I’d never known. Desperately I ate one – I’m not proud. But I felt a little better. I ate another. Then another. Soon enough, I was completely cured of all symptoms associated with the thorns. I was free from a tyranny occurring just millimeters inside of me.

Eventually I forgot all about them, the lacerations healed themselves – evidenced only by scars left on my skin. Not long after, I began feeling the same pangs all over, lethargy, and sleepiness. I knew they were again using my blood cells against me. They had no right! Again I called to God for a remedy, and again they supplied. Each time, the flowers grew bigger. They’re thriving. Each time, I’d chew with guilt. Once I felt better, they’d again begin wreaking havoc on my body.

I fought symptoms. I continue fighting them the only way I know how. My thorns and I live together as best we can. Really, I live for them. My blood cells work for them. My veins supply their only way of communication: temporary appeasement. When they drain me too much I can speak loudly, I can demand they return some of what they’d taken. They silently oblige. In that way, I am fortunate. Those poor blood cells though.


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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