RJ Dwyer

bandages

Your legs are all wrapped up in bandages. Bandage upon bandage, sick to the death of them. You push the end of a jaggy fingernail into the rim cladding your right leg, and try to shoogle it about, just so. It barely shifts it. A trace of reddish skin peeks from the top, and down there (where you'd rather not look), the very tips of your toes are like purple sausages. Fluid is leaking down the backs of your calves already, and a few droplets are pooled at your heels. Who ever heard of legs leaking? No one ever told you that happens in your dotage. Though could you really blame them? The ones who were capable of spreading the good news were probably stuck inside somewhere. And the lassie who wrapped them, she'd explained (only when you complained for the second time, well, it was the cutting off of circulation — a genuine fear of which prompted your asking if it needed to be half so tight as a bottle), if ye must know, she had to get the compression just right. Otherwise, there wasn't much point to it all, was there? And with those dull eyes that just screamed, let me do my job. A look on her face that left you wanting to set her straight. You worked all your days, and now she can't even give you the least comfort? Maybe, for good measure, a nod to how you pay (or at least paid) her wages.

That was daft. The sort of thing you would've ended up raking over and over in the small hours, looking down at the bus stop. And what if, a miracle, you had just enough steam to get all the way down there? Drop in your change, and voila, turn the key in the door of your own close. The sound of it. And the knack. There was a knack, but bless me if you ever knew how to explain it to anyone. Touch the picture of Catherine in the hallway. Sit in your chair and look out to the windowsill where she used to leave little bowls of seeds and water for the birds. How she would replace the water, wash the bowl. Did they care? She thought they did.

Or maybe wiser to lay low for a while, surely. It could generate a bit of a stink (though they were aye complaining within earshot of not having enough beds). Thinking of places you might go, who'd put up with you, have enough sense to keep shtum (not many). Who you've still got enough dirt on, the prospect of mutual aid not being enough (one or two). Even a tent in the woods, a den, like the one you would have made once, though it was damp and cold, and you had to get out quick on account of the ant's nest and the queer ivy that the Masson brothers had used to roof the thing. All the stupid little prayers (hadn't you kicked that habit long ago?) for if you did ever make it out. If only for a place to hide if you risked being dragged back to this hole by Dr M. The old quack (oh, just think, when you got your hands on him —they could still reach right the way around his fat neck).

So, at least you hadn't said that, about her wages. You would have been turning with it all night. Even come first light, when the street sweeper rolls past and pushes the very same stuff from the paths onto the grassy patches near the road. Just to wait for the next day when the wind and the odd toe punt have nudged them back. Or later, when the nurses, porters, and helpers start arriving, the same crowd taking their last puff and slagging the others walking past, like loitering weans the world over. The kind that aye made you feel you were ten and sitting next to Michael Ryan, who'd show aff his pubes to anyone who'd ask and who used to empty his pencil shavings down your collar when Miss Duffy wasn't exactly compos mentis. Wasn't she gorgeous, though? Oh, how you loved her.

Come to think of it, you probably let the lassie off lightly. You knew ye should bite your tongue (your Cathy would say, God rest her, would you ever bite the blessed thing clean off, for goodness sake), but you said to her anyway. You know hen, I've been stuck here on my arse near eight weeks now. When will any of you lot see fit to getting me home? Her just carrying on with her wrapping, up and over, up and over. Then the other nurse, looking halfway into the ground herself, counting her pills or whatever it was she was supposed to be doing. Blethering on, Happy are the poor, etcetera etcetera, and you replied, Oh, I didn't realise it was Sunday, thanks hen. And muttering, still loud enough, Snarky bitch, have you a psalm for that one? And the lassie had to make to sort of sneeze over a snorty giggle. She was all right with you after that.

You said you liked her necklace, and she showed it to you. Pretty little thing, heart-shaped, with a picture of her wee man on the inside. Heartbreaker in the making, no doubt. Some babies are just ugly though, aren't they? Turds and polish and pigs and lipstick and all that. Your Sean was one like that, of course, though he turned out all right in the end. And she laughed along and agreed, yes, some babies aren't much to look at. You liked that; you liked her laughing, and you had to stop yourself from looking down at her again after. If she would just laugh a little more? God almighty but, when did you ever get so old?

It doesn't come alone though, does it? One day, just catching sight of yerself in the rear-view or the shop window and seeing; not your face, but your old man's, staring back at you. So fucking awful.

But now, the woman in the room across the way is retching again. She's been vomiting hoops round her all night with the curtains drawn. You caught sight of her once; when the half-gone nurse came by and put her head in. There must have been something more she could have done, given her or something. Doesn't bear thinking about; the sight of her hunched in half, boaking over the cardboard bowl, greeting and waving for the nurse to go away, leave her be. Count your blessings, surely. When you recall yourself even as a young man bent over the porcelain. Not with the drink, some actual ailment. And that feeling, the heaving. You'd take the pain any day of the week instead. You'd take all four limbs wrapped in bandages down to your digits, even. Though you might have that to come. And if someone had told you, really told you, how life would be later on, well, you might have said to yourself a while back, after she'd gone; you've had a good run, but probably safest to call it a day. The thought had occurred, actually, once or twice.

Too fucking feart though. Of where you'd be headed? It's a sin, of course. Or was it the missing out? On Sean's youngest, climbing your knee and tugging your earlobes. Your nose is as big as my face Granda! Cheeky wee beggar. Though, to be fair to him, it's almost true. He's got all that to come, you tell him sometimes, just let him wait till he's an old man like yerself, and then you'll catch him, you'll be chasing him round his garden with your zimmer (the one that sits in the corner, and he decorates with tinsel and stick on stars come Christmas time).

You try and swipe at your phone now, but it comes up all wrong, so you lean over to tuck it under the bed covers to keep it safe from sticky fingers. You think about pouring a glass of the warmish drink on the nightstand, but the last time it ended up all down your front, and you don't fancy wading in your kecks for two hours and having to explain to everyone who walks past in the morning what's happened because you don't want them thinking the worst. Your mouth is dry, but not enough to risk that.

There's more retching behind the curtain. The woman doesn't sound so good. She's letting out these sounds, horrible sounds. The sorts of moans someone might make on the way out. You wouldn't know, Catherine having gone in the middle of the night. The drive in, once you got the call. Gone before you stepped foot on the ward. And you do tell her, when you speak with her sometimes, that you've never quite forgiven her that. But then again, you understand the impulse to be by herself. To spare you mibbe. You can understand it, but then again, it's just not right. Nobody should be on their own at the end.

You lean back in your chair and see your name above the bed. It's written in a red pen, with big looping handwriting. There's a crash from behind the woman's curtain, and underneath you see the splash of bile spreading out over the floor, the cardboard bowl rolling away. You shout out some silly thing despite yourself.

Go to sleep, the man next door says.

Go to sleep yerself. There's a woman half-deid over there.

Oh, not another one, he says and rolls over. You hear the rubbery creak of the mattress as he finds his comfort. You lean forward to see more. Where she is or what she's doing. She's not making a sound now, and you fancy you can see a shadow through the curtain; her arm, dropped down the side of the bed. She could be choking, and no one would even know. You shout again, louder. Is that your voice? You press the button on the buzzer, and it lights up silently. Press it once more.

Aw, Christ, fuck's sake.

You would have liked to have held her hand. When it comes down to it.

You push the table, and it rubs on the floor. The man next to you groans and shifts again. You put one hand on each of the chair's armrests and push. Nothing happens. You try again, leaning your body forward as far as you dare to. Somehow you're up. Look at ye now! You take a step forward. One. Two. Cold lino at the tips of your toes and a waft of air around your behind. You hold onto the table as you make your way around. Three. Four. There's a tug at your nostrils, and you wobble a bit as your neck pulls back. A few shooting stars. The oxygen cable up around your ears, fool. But it comes off no bother. You stop counting once you reach the doorway, hold onto the frame, and look down the hall.

Hullo? You say, Is anybody coming?

Nada. Zilch. The fucking state of them, God sake.

It's alright hen. I'm on my way. The woman doesn't reply. You can see the liquid on the floor spreading further out under the curtain. There's a fair bit of it; you'll have to mind your bandages. You judge the distance. Five more steps, you think, to the other room. And five more after that to the curtain. And when you get there? Figure it out. You're a smart lad. Your heart is there; you feel it in your throat, doddering away. And this toty wee ache at the top of your left shoulder, which is new. You take those first steps out into the hallway, where there's nothing at all to hang on to. Bambi on ice! But no, come off it man, it's no laughing matter.

You make it though. All the way. Bless me, you could do with a sit-down and a cup of tea. Something stronger. You reach your arm forward after a few more steps and grab hold of the curtain. It drags and pulls and gets stuck, and you tug harder, you almost go down with it.

Whasgoing on? A light switches on in the bay opposite.

Wee woman. Dying. Get help, you say. You can sort of make this one out in the new light, the shape of her head peering out over the covers.

How? She blinks.

Walk, you try and yell, but it comes out like something else. You turn to the bed to see the damage. She's lying there with her face down over the side where the little bowl has fallen, and the liquid is spreading across the floor. The smell of it now, up close. Her neck looks an awful shade of red, and you can't tell by the look of her, whether she's gone or not. Nothing for it. You step around that side and feel the wet soak into the bandage. They won't be happy with doing them all over again, or mibbe they won't mind, you don't know. You step forward again, and that feeling in your left shoulder, the dull ache, is getting louder, and there's a bit of a heavy feeling over your chest like someone's perched there. For some reason, you think of the first real fight you and Catherine had. Her share of the wages. It was your fault, obviously. And the shame of it, like a weight too, pressing down on your chest. You reach out toward the woman, holding on to the side of the bed with your other hand, and try to touch her shoulder, gently, like you would when you had to waken Sean in the morning for school, though you never liked to. You would rather have just stood there and watched him sleep. You could have stood there all day.

Hullo? You with me?

If you could only just turn her over at least, for her to get a bit of air. You try, but the heavy feeling is there again, and wouldn't it just be best if you had a sit-down?

And that's it, you're on the floor, crashing and shouting, and everything coming down with you, it feels like. A wet feeling all over your back, arms, hands, everywhere really. You try to push up on your elbows and slip again, and there's this big crack on the back of your head. You reach up to touch it and what comes back on your fingers is dark red. The big light turns on, and there are lots of voices saying things, some about you, some about her. You hear someone saying, Silly man, or maybe you don't. You close your eyes and feel a hand slipping into your palm. You squeeze it right back.

RJ Dwyer is a writer and doctor, currently pursuing an MLitt in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. His stories have featured in thi wurd Magazine, the Fish Anthology 2024 and the 2024 Anthology of the Federation of Writers (Scotland), among others. Dwyer was a winner in the 2024 Fish Flash Fiction Prize, and an excerpt from his novel-in-progress was shortlisted for the 2024 Moniack Mhor Emerging Writer Award. He is fiction editor of Our Father, a Glasgow-based literary project, and has worked on the editorial team for three books released by indie publisher thi wurd. Contact at: rjdwyer.writes@gmail.com

RJ wrote the following about ‘Bandages’:

I tend to enjoy writing the most when it feels like a way of getting to know someone, as it did with this piece. The first sentence of inner dialogue came to me in passing, and I found myself very interested in who it belonged to.