Bloodlines

Bleary eyed, I step into the entrance.  There are no other givers here that I can see.

“What is your full name and date of birth?”, asks the administrator behind the desk before giving me the sheet of probing questions that I must answer. Before long another nurse leads me into a small room and begins the interrogation, possibly the thirty-first time of one hundred and fifty times she will want to know the answers to these questions this week I calculate.

“What is your name and date of birth?”, enquires Tanya who already has one hand lining up the pricker.  The scrolling news banner on the television mentions more sexual harassment claims in Hollywood.  I make a mental note not to ask her about small pricks.

The form I have filled in just confirms the mundanity of my life; have I taken any drugs, been overseas recently or participated in hazardous activities such as rock climbing or sky diving?

I sacrifice my right fifth finger and without hesitation it is seized and unceremoniously violated by the small sharp incisor that leaps from its concealed house.  The extracted juice is placed within a small electronic sensor that determines my suitably for progressing to the next stage like a successful Bachelorette contestant. 

Having made it to the next round, I am shown to a stall like a much more sophisticated urinal and prepared for harvesting.    

      

“Can you confirm your name and date of birth please?”, asks Sally and I’m tempted to see what happens if I change my history at this point. 

I avoid looking at the long metallic lance.  A woman in her twenties is on my left looking slightly vacant as if they’ve left her for two rounds.

“You might feel a slight pr….”, err, yes, I do, but mainly I’m half expecting to say who I am again as I’m sure they have already forgotten.  It’s not the thought of the needle in my arm but the sensation of a tube of warm blood draped against my forearm that bothers me. 

Representatives from all walks of life occupy the adjacent seats, all putting on brave faces as they contemplate the good works it might achieve.  In times of urban terrorism, there is always the footage of those whose first instinct is to line up outside the donation centres.  A different call to arms perhaps.  

There are two groups who harass me, one who want to extract my fluids and the other who try their hardest to help me put it back in.  I’m giving in to the extractors this time round; next time though, it might be the turn of a deep blood red cabernet sauvignon running the other way that wins out. 

Andrew Hawkey