Compound Fracture

I yawned and groaned in bed as consciousness reluctantly returned. Stretching, back-arched, legs fully extended, suddenly a savage pain gripped my left calf, causing me to sit bolt upright, clutching at the offending muscle, the initial belief that a giant tarantula had crawled into bed with me and plunged its three inch fangs into the fat of my leg quickly dispelled as I realised it was simple cramp, albeit a painful, intense bout.
I struggled to the edge of the bed and stamped my left foot down on the ground a couple of times, grimacing and groaning some more as, instead of lessening, the pain seemed to intensify so that it felt as if my calf muscle must surely tear itself free of the bone.
‘Aaaarrrrgggggh,’ I complained to the universe as I tried again, planting my foot squarely on the ground and stretching my toes out as far as they would go, attempting to render my foot completely flush against the carpeted floor, a technique that had proved effective during previous booze-related cramping incidents.
Carefully, now, with foot in the correct position, I hoisted myself into a standing position, and took all of the weight on the cramping leg and, miracle of all miracles, as suddenly as it had started, the pain subsided, the muscle-shredding agony replaced by a dull ache somewhere deep in the meat of my leg, a sensation I could certainly deal with better than the hobbling pain it had replaced and, besides, if past experience was anything to go by, even this would soon vanish.
‘You bastard,’ I chided my own leg, slapping at my left thigh for good measure, as if somehow it were the fault of my lower limb that I had chosen to pour two thirds of a bottle of single malt down my throat the night before.
‘Bloody hell.’
I clutched at my head for a second, rubbing at my eyes, finally shaking my skull from side to side, trying to clear my thoughts, succeeding only in bringing on a bout of nausea, though one that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
I looked at the clock.
7.35 already.
Work beckoned like a big, horrid, beckoning thing.
‘Let’s quit,’ I said to myself, contemplating it for a second, glancing at the sideboard, looking for my phone, as if sight of it would compel me to place the call.
‘Sorry, boss, won’t be in today. I quit,’ would be my opener. ‘Why, you ask? Well, I can’t stand the fact that I have to breathe the same air as you. I can’t stand the fact that molecules that once resided on you inevitably find their way onto me. I can’t stand your teeth. Or your face. Or you. So get fucked.’
I couldn’t see the phone. Not that it mattered. I would never place such a call. I didn’t possess the required testicular fortitude. Instead, just as every day, I would go in, fill out the stupid fucking forms, smile at the clients as they left my desk, some happy to have signed away the next twenty five years of their lives, others furious following rejection, still others seemingly indifferent to the whole process, just going through the motions, doing what was expected, like ants following the chemical trail left by their scouts to the fresh supply of meat and, just like the ants, most would come out the other end of the journey just fine.
Though some would not.
Where the hell was my phone?
My bowels were starting to grumble, and early morning ablutions just weren’t the same without some candy to crush. Somehow, the relentless monotony of arranging sweets on a touchscreen served as some kind of laxative in the new millennia. Where generations past relied upon caffeine or nicotine or, on occasion, something somewhat stronger to open the anal floodgates, my generation preferred to jab our blunt, skill-less fingers at an electronic device that cost more than our parents would have paid for the family car.

‘We deserve to die,’ I told the room that I was still scanning, looking for the blasted phone.
‘Where are you?’ I demanded, as if it may have gained the power of sentience and could answer me back.
‘Here I am, Ali,’ it would screech electronically. ‘Come jab at me pointlessly whilst you void yourself. Truly, imbue me with a sense of purpose.’
‘No need for sarcasm,’ I told it as I spied the device, at last, there on the windowsill and, as I moved towards it, I noticed something else on the windowsill, too. Something small and delicate. Something clearly alive, for its antennae were twitching.
‘Morning, Mr. Wasp,’ I said cheerily enough, grabbing the phone and heading to the bathroom.

I closed the front door as gently as I could, eager that my overly inquisitive neighbour not hear me return. A pleasant enough chap, Bert, but I really wasn’t in the mood for a conversation about the state of the wheelie bin collection service under the current Labour council. That was a Saturday afternoon conversation, when time seemed more fluid, less precious, each moment wasted on a Friday evening filled with resentment and regret.
I waited next to the front door, breath held for a few seconds, pleased when no movement was heard from the adjacent flat. Either he was out or asleep. Or dead. He could be dead, I mused, head cocking to one side as I contemplated my feelings were it to turn out to be true. I mean, he was a bit of a pain in the arse at times but, in general, he was a decent sort, with a good heart, and a mean way with cultivating strawberries, his allotment a constant source of fruit and vegetable delights, delights he was only too happy to share. It was the social contract, I guess. The unspoken agreement. You put up with my griping over trivia, I’ll provide you with a punnet of juicy, delicious strawberries whenever they are ripe.
A fair trade, really.
Don’t die, Bert.
I moved into the flat, dismissing unfounded and thoroughly morbid thoughts of my neighbours untimely demise, and set about settling in for the evening, starting with the belt of my trousers, unbuckled and loosened, left to flap around uselessly. Next came the shirt, straight off, chucked onto the bed, ready for collection post-shower and, just as I was about to bend over and take off my shoes, I noticed it. The wasp. Still there on the windowsill.
‘Hello, fella,’ I said to the arthropod, approaching.
Rather rudely, it seemed to ignore me.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ I asked it, leaning down in front of the windowsill, eyes on the same level as the insect, our faces – do wasps have faces? I suppose they do – about six inches apart, focusing my eyes, trying to peer into his, curious to see if it were possible to make eye contact with a creature whose own eyes were made up of hundreds of reflective surfaces, discovering that it was not.
‘Shy, are we?’ I asked him. I assumed it was a he, anyway. The females were queens, right, and they never left the nest? Right? I’m sure that’s what Attenborough had taught me.
I blew a little air in his general direction, not trying to aggravate him, just attempting to elicit some kind of response: confirmation of life, if nothing else.
Dutifully, he twitched his antennae and, I would have sworn, turned his head a little in my direction as if, just as I was he, he were trying to get a better look at me.
My phone rang, making us both jump. Ok, probably just me. I fumbled in my pocket, my trousers halfway down my legs by this point, and half walked, half stumbled back towards the bed, taking the call as I struggled.
‘Hi, you,’ I said.
The voice on the other end of the line was strained, and it was clear that she was holding back tears.
‘Course you can. No worries,’ I assured her. ‘Yeah, five minutes ago.’
I plopped onto the bed as we spoke.
‘No plans. Well, seeing you, actually.’
Then the tears came.
‘Look, just get over here. I’ll cook your favourite.’
She agreed.
‘See you in thirty,’ I confirmed, then, ‘I love you.’
She hung up without responding.

Her eyes were damp as she entered the kitchen. She had let herself in with the key I had given her a couple of months ago, the first girlfriend to whom such an honour had ever been bestowed.
‘You sure?’ she had asked at the time and, though I had answered yes, the truth was somewhat more fluid.
‘Heh,’ I greeted, dropping the tea towel, stepping towards her, taking her in my arms, feeling her begin to shake as fresh tears started to flow.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked softly, placing a delicate kiss on the crown of her head, just where her mouse-brown hair parted into three distinct areas.
She shook her head against my chest by way of response, not yet ready to talk. I kissed her again and waited and, eventually, she broke away from me and moved to the kitchen table, her back turned, now, apparently unable or unwilling to meet my gaze, so I allowed her the time she needed.
‘There’s wine,’ I told the back of her head, grabbing it off the work surface and putting it in front of her, along with a glass.
Still she would not look at me.
I put another glass alongside the first.
‘Yes, please,’ I answered the unasked question as she began to pour the first and, it was as she finished serving that she summoned the courage to turn and face me.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
It was my turn to cry.

As I gazed at the tiny face of the wasp on my windowsill, I focused on the two comparatively large, swollen eyes of the creature, compound in nature, a thousand-thousand refractive lenses, each projecting an image of the world into the miniscule brain of the insect which, somehow, either through scientific process or the majesty of God Almighty himself, converted the myriad images into something intelligible just as I, this evening, had morphed through myriad emotions, starting with terror, transmuting into anger and now, just a couple of hours later, settling on a dim dread infused with a tinge of excitement.
In the bed, Tina mumbled something in her sleep, turning over as she grumbled, eyes flickering as if about to wake before settling back into repose, a calmness across her features that pleased me greatly, the contrast to her emotional state just a short while ago remarkable for, unlike my insect companion, my human one was as capable of great fury or sadness as she was tranquillity or joy so, now, to see her so at peace, suffused my heart with a love so profound I felt fresh tears rise, but I held them back, choosing instead to undress quietly at the bedside, slipping in beside her, disturbing her as little as I could, killing the light, content simply to hold her in the darkness for a while, thinking about our life together now, and what it may be in the future, as something that would inevitably change us forever grew silently within her even as she slept.

Sleep was hard to come by, my mind awhirl with possibilities and uncertainties, meaning I overslept so that, by the time I awoke, Tina was already active, planning the day, starting with a dread visit to her parents to deliver the news and, whether considered good or bad would undoubtedly be determined by the amount of whisky her father had consumed the night before, the more the better for, when dulled by hangover, he became tolerable as a human being. When sharp and active of mind, his personality was such that cold-blooded murder seemed almost forgivable.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ she told me as she stood in the bedroom doorway. ‘No rush, but we need to be out of here by ten.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ I grumbled half-heartedly, teasing, really, aware that the second she left, I too would be up and about, just enjoying being slovenly for a few fleeting final moments.’
‘And, watch out. There’s no loo roll. I’ll bring some back with me.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Could have been nasty.’
‘No shit.’
‘Literally.’
And she left.
I struggled out of bed, enjoying the sensation of the soft carpet between my toes. I glanced at the windowsill. He was still there. I moved towards him.
‘You still alive?’
A twitch of the left antenna seemed to serve as a response.
‘How long do you guys live?’
One, two, three twitches. He couldn’t be counting for me. Could he?
‘Is that days, weeks, months or years?’ I demanded, chuckling as he seemed to cock his head quizzically in my direction, like a puppy dog surprised the first time he hears his master sing.
‘That’s right. A joke,’ I informed my arthropod roommate. ‘It’s what we humans call a sense of humour.’
He observed me.
‘No good? Expect you prefer a jest with a sting in the tail, right?’ I quipped, leaning down towards him, breathing out harder than necessary, watching as my breath caused his antennae to move slightly and, unless it was my imagination, he shuffled a little from side to side, as if seeking a more comfortable rest position.
‘How long you sticking around for?’ I asked him, feeling brave, now, sticking out my index finger and prodding gently at his side, just below the head, careful to go nowhere near the business end, lest the sense of camaraderie that appeared to be developing was felt only on my side.
He didn’t react at all, save for another tilt of the head.
‘You hungry?’
I took his lack of response as a yes, and headed to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a teaspoon, in which were a few drops of warm water along with some grains of sugar.
I placed the meal before him and, initially, he appeared oblivious then, slowly, he moved in, struggling with the lip of the spoon, the edge slightly too high, so I tipped it towards him. His front legs mounted the metal surface, and he bowed his head towards the water and I watched, fascinated, as a short, stubby black tongue emerged from between his mandibles and dipped first into the water, then flicked at one of the grains of sugar, which stuck and vanished as he retracted it back into his mouth then – and I swear this is true – he paused, glancing up at me, as if seeking permission to continue with his meal.
‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Eat up.’
So he did.

The front door rattled in the jamb, as something solid struck the outside of it once, twice, three times. I was expecting Tina, but approached the door a little nervously, wondering if troublesome teenagers had decided it was my day to be taunted by them. I swung the door open to find her smiling at me, hands fully encumbered by four large bags, stuffed full.
‘What….?’ I began.
‘My forehead,’ she explained, without needing to hear the rest of the question.
‘Who…?’ I began again, looking at the bags.
‘Aunt Trish,’ she said, mind-reading once more.
‘I see. Well, come in, Mystic Meg. Here, let me get those.’
I took the bags from her and we moved through to the kitchen.
‘Actually, the bedroom would be better.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I said mischievously. ‘You finally cracked and got me the gimp costume?’
‘You wish.’
‘Actually, I do.’
She nudged me in the ribs as we squeezed through the bedroom door simultaneously.
‘So, what do we have here?’ I said, for no good reason, tipping the contents of bag number one out onto the bed.
‘She said to take what we want, and to give the rest to the charity shop.’
‘I can’t take any of it. It’s simply too small,’ I said, holding a yellow romper suit up against my chest.’
Tina laughed.
‘I dunno. You can get one moob in.’
‘I do not have moobs,’ I protested. ‘I prefer the term male breasts.’
‘Nice of her, though,’ Tina commented and, whilst what she was saying was most clearly the truth still, somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice piped up: ‘Keep your fucking beak out, Aunt Trish,’ the word Aunt sounded with such a sneer you could almost spread it, so solid yet dripping with venom was it.
‘Yeah, nice,’ I said aloud, absently.
‘Look,’ Tina said delightedly, holding up a pair of tiny pink shoes that, truth be told, were so insufferably cute even the hardest-hearted soul would have felt a lump in the throat.
‘Trouble is, we don’t know about sex. You know me. I’m a rugged, manly sort. I won’t have my lad poncing around the place in blue. Pink, I say. Everything in pink.’
‘You’re being weird,’ Tina told me, and I knew she was right, over-compensating for the anxiety I was feeling by clowning.
‘Yeah, just nerves I guess.’
She hugged me.
‘I’m nervous, too.’
She took my hand in hers, and guided it towards her belly where, dutifully, I placed my palm flat.
‘Nothing yet,’ I said and, inwardly, I was mightily relieved for, if it could not be felt, perhaps it was not even real at all.

‘How are you still alive?’ I asked the wasp as I checked in on it, as had become customary each morning and night, a fact which Tina had mocked me for initially but which now, some three weeks since the arrival of the insect, had become a source of fascination for her, too.
‘How long do they live?’ she asked from behind me.
‘A few months,’ I said, eyes on the arthropod, pleased to see it still active, though curious as to its longevity in such conditions. ‘They last a season, basically. Spring to winter. Except the queens. They can live for a few years apparently, hibernating through the worst of the winter.’
‘You a botanist, now?’ she asked.
‘Entomologist. I don’t know the first thing about stamps,’ I joked. She didn’t get it.
‘Why doesn’t he leave?’
“Dunno. It’s weird. And he’s probably a she, it turns out.’
Tina joined me in the study of the small beast.
‘Attenborough?’
‘T’internet.’
‘One or the other. Right, I’m off.’
‘See you tonight?’ I asked.
‘’Bout seven.’
A peck on the cheek, and she was gone.
‘Breakfast?’ I asked my six-legged friend, not bothering to wait for a response, heading to the kitchen and returning with her customary spoonful of warm, sugary water. Without hesitation, now, she took to the metal implement and drank hungrily and, as she fed, I gently stroked her back, confident after all this time that she was no threat. Once finished, again as had become habit, I laid my hand flat on the windowsill, palm up, and she ambled slowly onto my skin, making her way to the centre of my hand where she stopped, motionless, as if her work was done. I raised her up to eye level, and peered at her closely, scanning her from head to…what….not toe, surely….and, as I watched, I saw her sting extend slowly, the tip of her primary defensive weapon brushing against the soft flesh of my palm. She retracted it, then pushed it out once more, as if using it as a sensor, of some sort, or perhaps she was just teasing me, letting me know that, should she choose to, she could inflict pain on me with barely a moment’s notice. A signal to treat her kindly, else face the consequences, or an innocent, automated response, like a cat extending its claws when stretching out through sheer contentedness?
‘I trust you,’ I whispered to her and, as I spoke, the stinger was sheathed for the day.

‘My mom was right about you,’ she shouted, spit leaving her mouth, arcing through the air, landing on my cheek.
I laughed sardonically as I wiped away the fluid
‘Course she was.’
‘Oh, that’s funny, is it?’ she demanded, her fury somehow intensifying.
‘Not really. You just always mention your mom when we argue.’
‘Fuck you,’ she bellowed, apparently oblivious to how ridiculous her behaviour was which, in turn, began to spike my annoyance.
‘Don’t tell me. I’ll never amount to much. I’ll make a lousy Dad. I’ll cheat on you if you don’t keep an eye on me.’
She glared at me, silent for the moment.
‘She as crazy as you’re acting. You know that, right?’
She stormed from the kitchen, into the bedroom, and I heard the rattle of the wardrobe doors, then zips being opened.
‘She’s packing,’ I said to the walls, exasperation the over-riding emotion. ‘She doesn’t even live here, but she’s packing.’
More sounds of busy work came from the bedroom, as drawers were yanked open and slammed shut, the volume of the activity entirely for my benefit I was sure so, instead of responding to it, I chose instead to make a cup of tea, listening to the sound of the water slowly boiling instead of to her silliness.
Then silence.
The bedroom door being opened stealthily.
Her footsteps in the hallway, then the front door easing open.
‘Bye, love,’ I called cheerfully.
The front door slammed.
Man, imminent fatherhood truly was a thrill.

Her tiny black and yellow legs caused no sensation at all as she crawled over my upturned palm, the weight of the yellow jacket wasp so insignificant in relation to my human form she may as well not have even existed, save for the comfort she had come to bring me, particularly at times of stress, such as this.
‘Not supportive enough, apparently. Not taking the situation seriously enough.’
Yellow ambled around, listening attentively. I lifted my hand to my eye-line to allow me to study her more closely and, when it became clear that she had nothing to add to the conversation, I continued my venting.
‘I’m trying my best, you know. It’s a big thing, becoming a Dad. For us humans, anyway.’
I paused, allowing time for that one to sink in.
‘Not sure how it is in the insect world, but for us mammals, it’s quite a commitment. Our families are small units, three or four people, for the most part, not ten thousand strong like your lot. ’
Still she did not interrupt and, as I watched, she gently stroked her stinger against my skin before retracting it slightly and, unless my eyes deceived me, a single droplet of venom glistened at the tip.
‘Listen, don’t tell anyone, but I’m having a terrible thought.’
I moved her closer to my face.
‘I know it makes me a terrible person, but…..’ I paused before continuing, almost unable to believe that I had conceived of the notion, let alone that I was about to share it, ‘….I kind of hope the baby dies before it’s born.’
She stung me.
I flinched, clasping my hand shut instinctively, trying to crush my tiny friend, failing thankfully as her fragile body tumbled through the air and landed back on the windowsill. I clasped at my throbbing hand, opening my fist to inspect the damage, noting the reddening patch around the wound, sucking at it briefly, not sure if that was the right thing to do, doing it some more, anyway, then I turned to she who had inflicted the pain where she sat, trembling, on the edge of the windowsill.
‘It’s alright,’ I assured her. ‘I deserved that.’ Then, more softly. ‘I forgive you.’

Tina’s tears pierced my soul as she screamed her anguish.
I held her in my arms for, what else was I to do? My words to Yellow had been prophetic. The baby had been lost. Was I responsible, somehow? Had verbalising my desire tipped the hand of the universe, compelling the gods that control us all to reach in and suffocate the unborn baby in Tina’s womb, the hand of a deity squeezing tight shut the umbilical cord of the helpless child for long enough to extinguish a life yet to be lived.
‘Why?’ she demanded, her voice high-pitched, broken, the torment she felt so complete she lost the will to support herself, her legs giving way, so I took her in my arms and moved with her to the bed, laying her down gently, sitting beside her as she wept, staying silent, knowing that nothing I could say would be sufficient yet, at the same time, pondering whether a confession was necessary. Not now, certainly, but at some point in the future, perhaps? Tell her that I had wished our child dead. Tell her it was I that had made this happen through the viciousness and wickedness and selfishness of my own thoughts.
My hand throbbed, perhaps in sympathy with the pounding of her heart, and I glanced over at Yellow, who observed us in silence.
I stood and approached her slowly, crouching down so that I could look her in the eyes one last time, for today was the day I was going to remove her from my home, to send her on her way.
‘Time to go,’ I told her and, as expected, she did not respond, so I reached out an index finger, to stroke her one last time and, as my digit made contact, her form shattered, and she crumbled to dust, the perfection of her physical shape utterly destroyed by the thoughtlessness of my action and, as if issued from a place that could not exist, a cold wind swept through the room, and the dust that once was her was carried away with it, an eddy that swirled through the air and out the door, gone forever and, for all the world, it was as if she had never been there at all.
I looked at my distraught partner where she lay, caught somewhere between sleep and abject horror.
‘Oh Tina, what have I done?’ I asked her.
And the silence hurt more than the venom ever could.

© Ian Stevens (2016)
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