I could never be a nurse or a doctor or a paramedic. Thank GOD for those people, because they were born with a strength that I lack. The sight of blood, gore, bone, vomit, and any number of other bodily excretions, well, they make me lightheaded, wobbly-kneed. Don't get me started on the thought of parasites. Worms, they will be the death of me. Same with black flies (grown-up maggots!). In short, I'm a wimp.
I'm not wimpish when it comes to my literature, though. I love ruthless books, books that go places, sometimes deep and dark, sometimes extreme. They aren't frigid, these books. They don't employ restraint or propriety. They often disturb, chill, shock. They make my heart seize up a little, and I breathe, "YES" on the shaky exhale.
But this book.
It made me feel physically ill. It reminded me of the wimp I am when I'm in a hospital. Of how when I see blood, the edges become black as my consciousness threatens to slip away. The violence in this book forced me regularly to turn from the pages for a reprieve. But then I returned....
I have to laugh at myself. What did I expect, anyway? The book's back cover explains that the main character has a visceral desire to stab his sleeping infant with an ice pick! Thankfully, he doesn't do it, but his way of avoiding it puts him in a completely different situation. A situation with an S&M prostitute who is every bit as psychologically scarred as he is, and who desires to receive and inflict pain as much as he does. It is terrifying to see the extreme effects of their childhood trauma. It scared the shit out of me.
Theirs is a psychotic understanding hopefully far too extreme for most readers to easily comprehend, but it does show how our damage can't help but leak out in harmful ways. Perhaps our ways don't result in a trip to the E.R., but they can wreak havoc all the same.
Achilles' tendons. A Swiss Army knife. A can opener. An ice pick. An eye in its crimson world.
God, we're a fucked up people.