27 Apr, 2018 || 1 min read
The room isn’t very large. Seven, maybe eight people are already here, undergoing the same fate that awaits you.
They lead you towards a bed and lay you down. They tell you to relax, “It’ll be over soon.” they say. Looking at those people lying motionless around you, you know they are right.
They take your arm and roll up your sleeve, exposing the soft skin beneath. Wrapping a cord around your arm, they tell you to open and close your hand to keep the blood flowing. You briefly consider disobeying, but you know that will be no help.
Soon the pale flesh of your arm is fractured by the blue of your veins. They look down at you and smile. Taking you arm once again, they warn you to keep still. You see little else but the gleam of a needle as it descends towards the exposed line of blue. The metal is cold as it contacts your skin, but you barely have time to register the sensation before it breaks through your body’s barrier. There is a sharp pain as the needle finds its mark, but you know that soon, even the pain will recede.
You can do nothing but watch as your blood flows out of your body. You look on as the crimson rushes from you to fill the bag by your bed. As the bag is inflated by ever more of you precious life force, you begin to feel weak…
They are true to their word, and before long it is over. The bag is full, and they have no more use for you. Pulling the needle from you arm, they look down upon you and declare “It’s done.”
You sit up, and they hand you a drink and a biscuit. “You’ll need to sit down for a little while, as you’ll be feeling weak,” they say. “When you feel better, you can go.”
“Thank you for giving blood.”