6. Stitches and Jesus

"Jesus will take care of you," she says.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" is my instant reaction but I'm quick enough to stop the words from actually leaving my mouth. I shouldn't say anything. I should be polite. I can't take out my anger on her. I can't stand to look at her however. She's short, fat with the most masculine haircut. That incredibly unflattering police uniform doesn't help with her lumpy dumpy figure. Do they deliberately design those uniforms to be as ugly as possible? They look alright on men. They must design them to be extra ugly on women. Why am I thinking about this?

Everyone is staring at me. Why? oh because I have my own personal police woman shadow. She's smiling at me. Her expression is sympathetic. How am I supposed to react? I have no idea. I inch away. I dont want to be associated with her.

"Dont worry, Jesus loves you. Dont worry." She wont leave me alone. She's always two feet away.
"If you accept Jesus into your heart, he will take away all your sorrows. Come with me to church. I will show you."

"Shut the FUCK up," I want to say. Instead, I say "I did go to church. I went to church since I was little. It didn't help."

"Jesus can take away all your sorrows." She's smiling, but her eyes are so earnest and vacant at the same time. How does she do that? And did she not hear me?A nurse comes and starts to lead me away. Vapid Jesus freak follows me. She never touches me but she's spouting Jesus phrases still. I have no idea what is happening. God I am tired. What time is it?

Suddenly I'm in a room, sitting at some small table with my arm stretched out. The nurse is taking off the makeshit bandage the paramedics put on it. I think it should hurt. It doesn't. Can't feel a thing.

A boy arrives. What is he a nurse? An intern? He pulls on gloves, grabs a stitching needle and thread. Shit he's my doctor. How old is he? 12?

"Hold Jesus in your heart. He will give you courage." Fundie policewoman now looks concerned. She looks like he wants to hold my other hand. I sit on it just to keep it away from her. I'm watching her face, amused. Why is she looking so scared, it's my arm.

I'm quiet for the local aneasthetic, but boydoc doens't wait to stick that curved needle into the ragged edges of my skin. "FUCK!" I cry. I was bracing for the syringe but not the sewing. He doesn't pause. He looks Irritated. Tired. As if he might just be home asleep if he didn't have to sit here stitching up this batshitcrazy patient. "you aren't very good at this are you?" I ask. Probably shouldn't. He's only on the first cut. There's several more.

Eleven stitches total. Fundie police keeps saying Jesus, Jesus. I follow her with my mouth shut. I'm back in the police cab. I'm at the station, giving a statement. It all seems to have gone so fast but that can't be right. The clock tells me hours have passed. It's 2am.

The police ask lots of questions about exactly what time. Exactly where. Exactly how. They dont ask about how long it's been going on. How many years. What else happened in the years before. They dont ask why I did what I did. That's the strangest part.

Then again, I wouldn't know how to answer. Why did I do it? I dont know. It seemed like a good idea at the time? Too flippant.

Why did I do it? To get attention? Too pathetic.

Why did I do it?  I wanted to mess up myself on the outside to show how messed up I was on the inside? Too weird.

Honestly? I dont know why I put myself in hospital. I didn't plan on it. It was probably the better option then putting someone else in hospital

"Jesus loves you. Come to church with me and you will see!" says Fundie police hag as she drives me home.

"I tried Jesus, he's not taking my calls. I'm going to try Satan instead," I say as close the police car door. I glimpse her face, it's funny but I don't linger to enjoy it. I go up to my apartment. It's empty. For the moment. I know he'll be back. They'll keep him in the station at least overnight. Something about drunken disorderly. They can't charge him with anyone else. He'll be back. But for now, I have a little peace and quiet. Just for that, I'm grateful to my stitches. At least I get that much. Jesus couldn't do better.