March Frog

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The Rotting Sack of Meat //Hati cleans Quinn's wound/Quinn's POV// I look at your beautiful face. The little creases on your forehead look beautiful when you frown. “Why didn’t you take the bandage off?” you ask. Your voice sounds a bit tight. You didn’t like what you saw when I showed you the leg. Who cares about the leg? It’ll be all over soon, anyway. //chop chop chop the whole leg off// “I didn’t want to look at it,” I say. It’s the truth. It’s disgusting, like everything about this rotting sack of meat. “It feels weird and it hurts, I just ignored it.” It feels weird, but I’m not sure if it hurts. It’s just… There. Throbbing, whining, begging for attention. Annoying me with its existence. //rotting// //disgusting// //meat// “Sit on that chair so I can take a better look,” you say and I obey. It’s nice when you pay so much attention to me. It makes me feel like how things used to be. When things were better. Now, at times, you flinch when you look at me. It makes me feel right, but weird, but right, but weird. //wrong wrong wrong right wrong// I prefer this. When you fuss over me. You roll your eyes at me when I say as much. “How is it?” I ask when you look at the wound. [["Bad. Really bad," you say.]] [["Fine. Don't worry about it," you say.]]

That much is obvious. The smell of rot creeps into my nostrils from time to time. Unpleasant. “If you don’t let the wound breathe, it will get infected.” you say. Your face is distorted with a myriad of emotions, so much so that I can’t even keep track of them. You’re displeased. That much I can tell. “How do you know that?” I ask. It makes me feel a certain way when you know something I don’t. Exciting. You say something about your mother. //the bitch// //the provider// Something about medicine. You look like you care about it. I remind you that I’m dying, that one shouldn’t worry so much about this. It’s a bit silly. Don’t worry about the rot. And you look like you don’t care for me saying that. You look quite angry. You feel angry. Your anger seeps into my brain. “I didn’t know what to do about it…,” I say. It is true. I didn’t know, and I didn’t remember to ask. My words make you calm down a little. I prefer it, somehow. Right now.

You give me a smile that almost looks genuine. Your worry creeps into my mind like a dark cloud. But I applaud your ability to lie. Seeing it makes my chest feel lighter, it clears up the sky. You offer to clean the rot. It sounds like a chore, a useless task. Your face betrays your worry. I already knew that, but there’s something else. Fear. Even if my fate doesn’t matter, you look like you care. You fear for the inevitable. And, for some reason, I soak in your fear like a sponge, taking it in, and something about it makes me– “You look like you’re worried,” I say. My breath feels heavier. //die I will die I will die I don’t want to die save me save me// //shut up// //shut up// “I’m not worried,” you lie. It’s not as convincing now. //shut up// It’s a good thing that you’re worried! It means you love me. It means that you’d rather see me live. I will live for you, you’ll see. Bile tries to rise up to my throat. Disgusting. I need to sit down. Weak, rotting sack of meat.