Anal Twine

by Craig Wallwork

Maggie heard of a behaviour-change concept that happens when you snap an elastic band against your wrist.  Supposedly, the sting creates a mental diversion, one that forces your brain away from say, the influence of addiction, the fear of dying, the inner scream of self harm; the theory being any behaviour that is followed by a punishment will occur less often.  I asked Maggie if she thought this would help when I have eight fingers shoved up my rectum later that day, and to this she replied, “The technique is supposed to distract your thoughts, so it might help take your mind off the pain.  But really, I think the only person who could answer that is a ventriloquist’s dummy.  Did you sign the papers yet?”

They say it happens if you dehydrate, a lack of exercise, or not taking enough fibre in your diet.  It happens when your wife moves out and all that’s left in the refrigerator is minute steak and 22 cans of Stella. 

I snap the ecstatic band, once.  Grit my teeth. 

He says, “Fissures, Mr Roberts, are very common in all ages, and are more often than not sighted within the interspincteric groove.”  He looks up from my arsehole momentarily to say, “The anal canal.”

I look back and nod once, as that is pretty much all I can do…well, that and observe him scoop out a large clump of clear jelly from an industrial sized plastic container. 

As I realign my focus back to blood pressure monitor on his desk, I hear him say, “The skin within the canal is called the anoderm, and unlike normal skin it has no hairs or sebaceous glands.  It does however contain a large number of somatic sensory nerves, which unfortunately for you, registers light touch and pain.  The aesthetic will help.” 

The noise coming from my wrist is like a Morse code.

A few weeks back, when I turned in from a 13-hour shift after driving shitheels and lowlifes to and from the suburban hell-rot of my hometown, my boss smelt whisky on my breath.  Shortly after that, he saw a pair of pink lace knickers draped over the back seat of his cab, and my zipper undone.  I knew then, this was going to take more than just saying it with flowers to win Maggie over. 

He says, “Recamier, back in 1838, prescribed the most effective cure for fissures is anal dilation.  How’s that?”

I assume he means the pressure he is applying, and not my understanding of Recamier’s theory.  I manage to squeeze a few words of reassurance through gritted teeth. 

“Good.  Now where was I?  Ah yes, Recamier.  The technique has undergone various changes over the years, but the principle remains.  Two physicians called William Alexander and A R Crapp…”

Hindered by the pain of what I was told would be a better alternative than surgery by my GP, I muster up the will to ask him to repeat the last name.

“Crapp?  Yes, quite an unfortunate name considering his particular area of expertise.  Well, both he and Alexander support Recamier’s technique, and believe it to be the procedure of choice for anal dilation.  I’m going to insert the second finger now, Mr Roberts.”

The morning after sharing a quart of Wild turkey with the blond who couldn’t afford her fare, the same who blew me for the tip and let me cum on her knickers, Maggie was getting up for work.  We passed each other on the stairs, as we do most mornings.

There I handed her the P45 issued by my boss, and one week later, on those same stairs, she handed me the divorce papers. 

He says, “Most physicians do not condone more than six fingers, as it is believed four is quite adequate to reduce internal sphincteric pressure.  I’m personally of the opinion lateral subcutaneous internal sphincterotomy is just as affective, if not better than this procedure.  But I can fully understand your reservations with rectal surgery.”

You don’t need your marriage to break down to get constipated, but it helps.  In the first few days, I was too drunk to realise I hadn’t passed anything other than 50 gallons of lager.  You don’t take in bowel movements when you’re riding out the storm – least that’s the theory.  While tears bled from each eye making the world permanently blurry and askew, I’d commit to the empty spaces of the room words of reassurance, telling myself I was at my lowest ebb, and nothing more could go wrong.  Then I needed to take a shit. 

I’ve never been able to empathise with those “actresses” who are paid to sit on a 14-inch cock, but I did that day.

As he inserts his third finger, I pull real hard on the elastic band, and it snaps.  The skin beneath is reddened into a perfect kabbalah bracelet.  My worse thought at this point isn’t toward the possibility of incontinence later in life due to having my arsehole stretched wider than a doughnut; it’s that people on the street may think I am part of the cult. 

That’s when he says, “Mr Roberts; you do know you’ve got a piece of twine in your rectum?”

I look behind to see the old man’s forehead, a series of pleats stacked on top of each other indicating mistrust. 

“In all my years,” he says shaking his head. 

When a rectal surgeon who specialises in fecal incontinence, rectal cancer and inflammatory bowel disease, says this, you have to give it your full attention. 

I try looking, to catch a glimpse of the twine, if indeed it exists at all.  But I can’t see anything other than a pair of plastic forceps heading beak first between my arse cheeks. 

I ask him if they’re necessary.

He looks up to see me looking at the forceps.  “These?” he asks.  “Don’t worry about these.  They’ll just assist me in clamping open the anus.  I think our main concern at this moment is how twine has found its way through your colon.  Unless of course it did not go through the colon?”

You tell yourself you’re at your lowest ebb and nothing more can go wrong, but you forget there’s hell below ground zero. 

This rectal surgeon, one referred by my general practitioner after I came to him about blood-streaked toilet paper, now thinks I’m into some kinky shit.  I am not.  All I want is the bleeding to stop, and the pain. 

I try reassuring him that it was probably my wife who placed it up there, an act of retribution like prawns being sewn into the hem of curtains, or writing your mobile phone number next to the sex cards found in a phone box.  I do this for two reasons.  The first is to convince the old man I am straight.  The second is to add good reason to how the thread ended up there.  Maggie finding out her husband has been getting free blow jobs from punters is certain to cause some ill feeling.

He says, “Maybe I should pull it?”

I ask him, in his professional opinion, if he thinks that wise.  He says, “I should imagine most of the twine has been eroded by gastric acid.  I am sure it’s only a fraction of its original length.  Your poor diet, and the slow contraction of the colon’s muscles, could have contributed to the fact most of the twine has not fully been digested.”

I have to ask him of the possible complications, if the twine is of considerable length.  He says, looking up, his mouth obscured by the cleavage of each cheek,  “Worse case scenario – your lower intestine is pulled out with it.  The upshot to this is all conventional toilet visits will be negated because we will have to provide you with a colostomy bag.”  He winks.  “But I am sure nothing so drastic will occur.  Unless of course we find on the opposite end a kite, or playful kitten.”  He laughs a little to himself and what follows is the sharp-eye-watering thrust as the forceps replace his fingers.

A marriage can never break down.  Not in the same way a car, or television can break down.  It takes one, possibly both, to sabotage a relationship – be that consciously or otherwise.  My contribution was to have an affair.  Maggie’s was to cut herself, and sleep fourteen hours a day. 

The woman I took to was a regular pick up.  Every morning, as my shift was ending, I drove down Broughton Road to a small cul-de-sac and waited outside a small semi-detached red brick house.  6.30am every morning she would leave that house and fill the cab with expensive perfume and polite conversation.  She worked in the city; conveyancing for a well to do charted soliciting firm.  She had amazing eyes, dark as coffee beans.  Her attire was always smart; mostly two-piece office suits, blazer and short skirt.  She liked me because I was always punctual, and knew the side streets that avoided all the early morning traffic.  An arrangement was made between us, which meant no other driver could attain her business.  I would be hers, and no one else.  There wasn’t much more to it than that, save for a few pleasantries regarding the weather, or shy comment pertaining to what was on the radio at the time.  But it doesn’t take long before the surface of civility is slowly scratched away.  What lay beneath for us both was a simple loneliness, even though we were both linked to other people.

He says, “I imagine the lidocaine will stop you from experiencing too much discomfort, Mr Roberts.  The twine is slim, so if anything, the sensation will be more pleasurable than uncomfortable.”

Though I am staring towards the blood pressure monitor again, I know the old bastard is smirking at my alleged self-styled perversion.  No doubt he believes my arse has been home in the past to many objects, most likely a chain of beads, love eggs, or an Action Man doll.  I don’t believe anything I say will convince him otherwise.

“If you do feel any sharp pain in the lower abdomen, please let me know.  Okay, here goes.”

Numbed by lidocaine, I feel only a slight resistance, one that arrives when the doc sucks air through his teeth.  Each time this happens, he asks, “Comfortable?” 

Bent over a desk, arsehole clamped open with forceps while an old man with very questionable breath pulls out an immeasurable length of twine from your colon, you imagine a hundred more suitable terms than, comfortable.  I agree. 

Presumably, to take my mind away from the incident, just as the elastic band was supposed to, he says to me, “It occurs to me I never finished telling you more of Alexander and Crapp’s studies and development of anal dilation.”

I ask him to repeat the last name, as it sounds quite an unfortunate surname for a coloproctologist.

He says, “Yes.  Crapp.  I must concur, like I did moments earlier, it is an ill-fated family name.  Comfortable?”

I ask him how many fingers we are up to, and he replies, “None.  Though that’s not to say the current dilation enforced by the forceps is not at the very least a good three, possibly four.”

I feel a slight jolt within my colon, and hear the doctor say, “I think I have retrieved enough twine to begin constructing a patchwork quit.”

I’m inclined, considering the nature of my entrustment, if he knows that forceps were never discussed, and more importantly, what function twine has on the healing process.

I look back and the old man peers, suspiciously, from the valley of my rear.  He then says, “Twine has no business within the interspincteric groove, nor does it have any relevance to your healing, Mr Roberts.”

I ask him what’s an interspincteric groove.  He replies with, “The anal canal, Mr Roberts.  Were you not paying attention before?”

I shake my head, and a swell of humiliating pain radiates from my lower abdomen.  I ask him if it’s normal for the fingers of a person to administer such a high level of discomfort, even when the area the fingers are invading is numbed by an aesthetic.

“I have no fingers currently in the rectal region, Mr Roberts.  What you’re feeling are the forceps.”

I tell him forceps were never discussed, and to this he replies, “They were called in when we discovered the twine.” 

I am none the wiser. 

“Mr Roberts, you do remember the twine residing in your colon?”

I shake my head and ask him, in his professional opinion, if he believes this to be the cause of my anal fissure.

He says, “Do you often find it difficult retaining information, Mr Roberts?” 

The old man’s tone is harder than the stool that provoked this whole ordeal.  I tell him there is nothing wrong with my memory, but I am bringing into question his conduct, and discrimination toward patients with rectal discomfort. 

He intoned, “I can assure you, Mr Roberts, my behaviour is always professional.  Obliviously the trauma of the procedure is causing you some distress.  But I will confess, my comment regarding the kite and kitten was a little inappropriate.”

I’m either the victim of a malicious prank set up by Maggie, or the old man is senile.  Either way, I ask the doc if he would kindly remove the forceps.  I tell him that after much deliberation, I have decided to allow nature, and a course of stool softeners, help assist the healing process.

“But Mr Roberts, I can assure you…”

Please, I say.  Would you really wish to have this incident recalled in a medical tribunal, and your good name dragged through the mud?  I ask him again to the remove the forceps.  After a few seconds, I feel the distant, but much welcomed, tension of my rectal muscles clamp shut.  As I pull up my trousers and secure the belt, I hear the snap of elastic as the doctor removes his gloves. 

He says, “I could not retrieve all the twine, Mr Roberts, as it does appear much longer than first envisaged.  I have, however, removed as much as time permitted, and placed it in this small plastic container.”

He hands me a small receptacle, most commonly used for urine samples.

“It may be prudent to seek further medical advice, should, after passing your next stool, the twine is still evident.”

Sure, I say.  Whatever.  I then place the container in my coat pocket and leave.

From my original meeting with my GP, a suggestion was given (along with a small bottle of liquid Docusate to help soften my shit) of two to three warm baths a day, as the main cause for the prolonged healing time for anal fissures is spasms, or contractions of the rectal muscles.  The warm water supposedly helps relax the sphincter, and increases blood flow. 

As I take my second bath that day, I recall the doctor’s conviction regarding the twine.  He was convinced I had a fair length up there.  I’m fucked if I remember having ever digested twine, or inserting a ball of the fabric up my arsehole.  However, that is not to say it never happened.  For three weeks straight, I’ve been confined to the living room couch, drunk as a crab, and without any commonsense whatsoever.  It is also true that my past has been peppered with various debauched, and quite frankly, sickening acts of destitution when smashed. 

Once, after downing fifteen pints of mild, I let a dog lick my ball-bag for five minutes straight while I watched a German pornographic film.  The dog was a stray and drafted in for employment that very evening.  The poor bastard had patches of fir missing, and if I recall correctly, one silver eye, probably having lost the use of it in a fight.  When you look down at such a pathetic creature, one rolling its tongue along your nut sack, it rather kills the mood. 

It would come as no surprise to me that during the throws of my drunken despair, I decided to breach the area in question with twine, most probably for the fun of it, and in part to aid the masturbation process.  

I reached under the water, and with the tip of my index finger, gently stroked the rectal opening.  It was a few seconds in when I felt something graze my finger.  At first, I thought it might be a soft slip of skin, or long pubic hair.  I found its tip and clamped it between both thumb and finger.  What became clear was not only the twine, as the doctor had said, but also what a sick bastard I must have been for shoving it up my arsehole in the first place. 

I released a good three inches before deciding to stop to retrieve the container given to me by the doctor.  I returned to the bath and sat there examining its contents.  The twine was thin, and seemed to be light blue in colour, and while I twirled and shook the container, a strange distance developed between the surroundings and myself.  In the first instance, I looked down and could not remember getting in the water.  Then, between my legs, I noticed a long blue vein vacating my arsehole. 

I placed the container on the side of the bath and picked at one end of the vein until it reached the water’s surface.  After further scrutiny, I realised it was identical to the twine resting beside me.  The doctor was right.  There was twine shoved up there.  I began to slowly draw out the twine.  I took so much that I had to coil the slack around my wrist.  As it showed no sign of its end, I stopped pulling, reached over to a pair of nail scissors on a small shelf behind me, and severed the connection. 

Maggie once told me the only reason she stayed with me was because she never wanted to catch Chlamydia.  Being married is supposed to stop the risk of pussy-rot. 

It didn’t for Maggie. 

I’m starting to think the constipation is just Fate’s revenge for my infidelity.  In the past, my cock obstructed the course of our happiness together as man and wife, and now the result of a poor diet brought on by divorce proceedings brought on a turd that obstructed my colon.  Makes sense. 

I look down.  Bewildered. 

I have done some strange things when pissed, but I have never, at least to my recollection, run a bath without knowing and took to its water naked.  I can only assume I awoke, and subconsciously hoped to clean myself up a little. 

But why wrap my wrist in blue thread? 

I leave the bathroom in a robe Maggie bought me for Christmas last year, back when I had a job and her skin was unmarked by scar tissue.  In the bedroom the curtains are drawn.  Dark outside.  I check the clock on the bedside cabinet and it reads: 22.30pm.  Have I slept a whole day?  Probably.  With little else to do I mix a little Docusate with 7 ounces of Milk, drink it, and do twenty lunges, as this helps to stretch the colon muscles and aid digestion.  I then lie on the bed and fall asleep.

The blond and I never really worked out.  Affairs demand a lot on both involved.  They require time and lots of energy.  Doing nightshifts for the cab company in my hometown meant I had very little of both.  We fucked a few times in some travel tavern on the outskirts of nowhere, and afterwards I’d lie next to her and she would ask silly questions like, “If you had to fuck one animal, what would it be?”  Or, “Would you rather be sodomised or have all your toenails removed?” 

After she lit up a cigarette and passed it to me, the filter reeking of my semen, and asked, “Have you feltched?” I left her. 

Like I say, affairs take too much time and energy.

The receptionist with the big tits smiles and says, “Your appointment with Dr Bracknell was yesterday, Mr Roberts”

I tell her that’s a mistake, and that my GP, doctor Hounslow, referred me.  I tell her again how the procedure is scheduled for today. 

She looks over to her computer screen again, clicks twice on the mouse and shakes her head.  She says, “Our records show the appointment was yesterday, and that you attended.  Are you wanting a new appointment, or did you wish you speak with Dr Bracknell?”

At that point, an old man with a tired expression walks out from a door to my left, in his hands are brown folders.  He walks up to the receptionist’s desk and places them in an out tray. 

He says, “Can you make sure these are sent down for archiving.”

The receptionist agrees and addresses the man, “Dr Bracknell, this is Mr Roberts and…”
 
Before she can finish, the old man has taken off the glasses and offered me his hand. 
He says, “Mr Roberts, how are things?”

I’m a little taken back by his informality, but I tell him I’m fine and we shake. 
Placing his glasses in the top pocket of a dogtooth blazer, he says, “I’m assuming you wish to see me?”

I nod and tell him I have an appointment, and then relay the name of my GP.

“Another appointment?  I don’t believe I…”

He turns to the receptionist who explains the mix up.
 
Turning back to me, he says, “Mr Roberts, I am going to ask you a question.  It may sound a little strange, but if you could indulge an old man, I would greatly appreciate an honest answer.”

I nod.

He asks, “Have you any recollection of being here before?”

I look to the receptionist, who seems a little embarrassed, and shake my head.

He asks, “Do you think we have ever met?”

I tell him he looks a little familiar, but I’m pretty sure I’m just confusing him and Dick Van dyke from Diagnosis Murder.  The receptionist lets out a little giggle, and it allows me to check out her magnificent breasts once again.

He says, “Maybe we should go into my office.”

The old man leads me to the room he exited moments earlier.  The interior is warm, and an expensive looking walnut desk leads me to think he’s very good at his job.  A display cabinet, home to medical reference journals, encyclopaedias and an internal plastic stomach dissection, confirms his expertise.  We both sit, and he leans into his desk, both hands grasped.

He says, “I am going to tell you something that may cause you concern, Mr Roberts.”

When a rectal surgeon who specialises in fecal incontinence, rectal cancer and inflammatory bowel disease, says this, you have to give it your full attention. 

“Within the limbic system of the temporal lobe, there is a section of the brain called the hippocampus.  It deals with episodic memories, Mr Roberts.  When a patient is in the first stages of Alzheimer’s disease, this section is affected before any other part of the cortex.  The damage sustained to the hippocampus results in the inability to form new memories, therefore an Alzheimer’s patient, you could say, is lost forever in the past.”

I tell him how I didn’t know anal bleeding was a sign of Alzheimer’s.

“I can assure you, Mr Roberts, it is not, and should only be noted for comparison purposes only.”

I ask, Comparison?

“Alzheimer’s affects all short term memory, whereas another result of injury to hippocampus is something called anterograde amnesia, which affects memories prior to damage.”

The old man leans back in his chair, studies me for a moment, and then gets up.  Taking the corner of the desk closest to me as a seat, he says, “I think you are suffering from anterograde amnesia, Mr Roberts.”

I tell him it’s only the booze.  I’ve been drinking a lot recently because my marriage is nearing its end.  Memory holes are par the course, unfortunately.

“Were you under the influence yesterday, Mr Roberts?”

Probably, I tell him.

“Then you hide it well.  During my pre-examination for the anal dilation procedure, one we began but never finished, you answered all my questions with both lucidity and good humour.  I have the results here.”

He went back around to his desk drawer and pulled a small folder, similar to those he handed the big-titted receptionist.  When back on the corner of the desk, he handed me two sheets of paper. 

I ask him if this is a joke.

“I’m a rectal surgeon, Mr Roberts.  We pride ourselves on our lack of humour.”

I read the paper.  It was a series of customary questions regarding family history, average bowel movements, and appraisal of localised pain.  At the top was my name and address, and at the bottom my signature and yesterday’s date. 

“As you can see, Mr Roberts, there is no way I could have obtained this information had you not provided it.  And I’m quite sure, even at this stage, if any doubt remains, the indisputable presence of your signature should allay any concerns that I am a joker.”

I wasn’t buying it.  Maggie had put this guy up to it.  She was obviously trying to portray me in an unfavourable light so the divorce would move swiftly, and in her favour.  I don’t know how she did it, or how my supposed memory loss would help achieve a quick separation, but I can only assume that my reluctance to sign the divorce papers was causing her too much distress and she was prepared to do anything, and everything, to skip that formality.  I tell the doc nice try, but faking my signature, and trying to baffle me with medical jargon, isn’t going to get me to sign those divorce papers.  Maggie and I still have a chance on working things out. 

“Maggie?  I assume that’s your wife?  Yes, you mentioned yesterday you believed her to be at blame for the twine.”

The twine?

“Yes, Mr Roberts, the twine.  While performing the procedure yesterday, we discovered a length of blue twine at the rectal opening.  Least at that juncture I believed it to be twine, but after you left, and your unawareness to its existence seemed convincing enough, I conversed, with much discretion I might hesitant to add, with a colleague from my university days.  He is a neuroscientist at the city’s main hospital.  We spoke at length about episodic encodings, quite frankly a riveting subject within itself, and the role and damage of the hippocampus.”

I tell him I took a bath, one I didn’t remember running, and around my wrist was a length of blue twine that I don’t remember attaching.  This morning I found a small container with a shorter length on the side of the bath.

He asks, “One like this?”

The old man reaches over his desk to a small drawer and pulls out an identical clear plastic container like the one I have back home.  I nod my head. 

“I know this must be worrying, or a lot to take in, Mr Roberts, but I would like to refer you to my friend for further examination.”

I ask him why.

“To confirm, or denounce my theory.”

And what’s that.

“Though it is highly implausible, it could be that a rouge cell strand from the neural circuitry found in the hippocampus could have somehow bifurcated and found its way to the colon.  Like I say, it is highly doubtful, but at this stage, it’s my only elucidation regards your memory loss.”

I ask him to repeat that in English.

“The twine at the rectal opening is not twine at all.  It is a small strand containing your short-term memory.  This strand has somehow unthreaded itself from the hippocampus, and over time, maybe even years, found its way through, and into your digestive system.  In short, you’re leaking memories.”

I laugh, half expecting the old man to join me.  But he doesn’t.  The old fucker’s face is as impassive as that bitch Liberty. 

“I know how it sounds, Mr Roberts.  I am a doctor, and it is not in our practice to speculate so outlandishly.  But if you’re willing to undergo a small experiment with me, then hopefully, some truth will be found in my conjecture.”

The doc hands me a piece of paper and tells me to write on it what I had for breakfast, underneath that, my favourite colour.  I have to show him this before I place it into my pocket.  He then tells me to remove my trousers and boxer shorts.  Behind his desk I see wall mounted certificates, most of which I cannot read clearly, but somehow provide reassurance that I’m not about to be the victim of buggery.  Once bent over his desk, he places on a pair of latex gloves and after a few minutes returns to his desk with a small length of blue twine. 

I tell the doc nice try, but faking my signature, and trying to baffle me with medical jargon, isn’t going to get me to sign those divorce papers.  Maggie and I still have a chance on working things out.

“Do you know where you are, Mr Roberts?”

I tell him of course I do.  I’m attending a consultation regards an anal fissure. 

It then occurs to me there’s been a shift, both in time and my position.  I look to the chair I should be sat on, and then notice I’m naked from the waist down.  Matters of discretion take over and I’m pull up my trousers within seconds.  The doc is now sat back at his chair.

He says, “Don’t be alarmed, Mr Roberts.  You’re not the victim of any illusory magic, nor prank set up by your wife, Maggie.”  He points at the chair opposite, and says, “If you please take a seat I’ll explain all.”

I tell him to go fuck himself and make my way to the door. 

“Please, Mr Roberts, there’s no need to leave.”

I ask what he uses, if it’s chloroform, or Ketamine?

“The answer your looking for is in your left trouser pocket, Mr Roberts.  And of course what I hold in my hand.”

I reach into my left pocket and feel a piece of paper. 

As I pull it out the doc says, “Bran Flakes and the colour yellow.”

I ask him to explain. 

“You ate Bran Flakes this morning, and your favourite colour is yellow.”

I ask him how he knows this, and he nods his head toward the paper still folded in my hand.  I look down and open it, and there, written in my handwriting are the words: Bran Flakes.  Yellow.  Underneath is my signature. 

I tell him this is gone beyond a joke and the doc explains the hippocampus, its role in memory function, and the twine.  He then hands me the tiny blue thread in his hand, or what he believes to be a nerve cell that holds my short-term memory.

He says, “This is only an estimated guess, but I believe its length is important in understanding how many memories are lost.  Yesterday, during the procedure, I retrieved possibly five to seven inches.  Shortly thereafter, your cognitive state alternated, and you regressed, again, only by estimation, by five minutes.  In theory, an inch of the nerve cell represents a minute of your short term memory, hence why I only removed two inches on this occasion, as I have little time in my day to keep repeating myself, even if that person appears to be miracle of science.”

I ask him, if all this were true, what would happen if I kept pulling at the twine.  How many memories would be lost forever?

“That’s a mathematical, and highly dangerous supposition, Mr Roberts.  If indeed what we’re dealing with here is a cell strand from hippocampus, then like many other cells within the body the length is sometimes greater than the space in which it occupies.  My friend, Dr Oberman, would be a better person to converse with on the subject.  However, at a conservative guess, you could pull in the region of five metres, to five miles.  I’m really no expert on the subject.”

There’s no use in trying to do the math. 

He says, “Conversely, you could be at an advantage, Mr Roberts.  How many people are given the opportunity to eradicate those moments in one’s life we’d all rather forget?”

He’s joking.  I don’t laugh.

When your marriage is drawing to an end, and all you have is the understanding it was your fault, your mistakes, and your affairs that made your wife cut herself and file for a divorce, you take understanding out of the equation. 

Later that night I run a bath, one that will help relax my rectal muscles, and assist blood flow, a natural pacifier for the constant arse pain that’s plagued me since Maggie left.  Afterwards I dress in the robe Maggie bought me for Christmas and lie on the bed. 

Mounted to the foot-end of the bed is a mains powered Baldor 632E 6″ Deluxe Grinder that I purchased from a hardware store outlet in the city.  It has two 152.4mm diameter base grinders (of which only one will be used), and weighs in at 48lbs.  152.4mm equals 6 inches, which equals 6 minutes of memory twine, if the doctor’s theory holds any truth.  Revolutions per minute for the Baldor 632E is a maximum of 18000.  At this setting, I stand to loose 10.800 minutes per 1 minute.  In an hour that figure increases to 648.000 minutes, which is 450 days.   450 days of my life gone in just 1 hour.  The grinder is plugged into a timer, commonly used to switch your lights on and off when you’re not at home. 

I tie the surplus twine left over from my visit with Dr Bracknell to a length of domestic string.  Once the two ends are secure I attached the string end to the grinder with gaffer tape, and gather up the slack. 

By my watch, in two minutes the timer will start the grinder, and precisely 1 hour and 32 minutes later it will turn itself off again. 

In 1 hour and 32 minutes, I won’t have any recollection of my visits with Dr Bracknell, or my GP.  The conversations about anal dilation and memory leakage will hold no relevance.  The job I had, the blonde from the city, the mistakes I made – gone forever.  So will be the knowledge of signing the divorce papers early that day and the note I included to Maggie telling her I never wanted to see her again, ever.  All the pictures we have together, the address book written by her, the clothes and holiday photographs, I will never know they sit in a plastic refuge bag outside her parent’s home. 

1 minute and counting.

All I will have at the end of this is my life before we met.  The fresh start, untainted by bad memories.  I will hold no malice to Maggie, or to myself. 

When the grinder stops and I’m conscious to the world around me again, all I will know of how I came to lose just over 2 years of my life, will be in a note resting on my chest that says:

Cut the twine.
What you can’t remember, you don’t want to know.

30 seconds…

I breathe in.  Hold tight the small nail scissors in my hand.  In all my heart, I hope the theory of the hippocampus is true.  This procedure has well been thought out.  The realisation of being lay on a bed with a 115-volt grinder pulling twine from your arsehole is going to be scary for anyone.  But if the old doc got it right, then no sooner has the thought registered in my mind, it should resign itself from memory.  After the timer stops, I have the note. 

A small portable television monitor wired up to a VCR, both set to another timer that starts exactly when the grinder stops, will play camcorder footage of me explaining to myself how I ended up here, minus the sordid details, and any explanation of Maggie. 

10 seconds…

God granted me a reprieve.  Don’t roll with the punches, He said.  Don’t keep your chin up.   Don’t ride out the storm.  Start afresh, came His demand.  Change paths.  Make a new life!

A smile crawls over my face, and within, calmness takes over.  That’s when I hear the grinder’s motor begin to whirl.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, June 18th, 2008 and was filed under Blog, Featured, Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~