There wasn’t much blood at first. A smear, creamy and pink; then another. Then a vial of it drawn black from the pale blue place on my arm. Then it was the color of Valentine candy, smudged on the plastic condom covering a terrifyingly long transvaginal wand. Another dark vial, another smear but redder, and then the phone rang.
I am alone in this house of death. The bright track lighting overhead does nothing to push back the gloom. Somewhere near me, sharp surgical tools cut into white, bloodless flesh. Faceless machines suck organs and fluids from open body cavities.