7 minute read
Breanna DeSimone
Ovarian Doppelgänger Kelley Northam
A knife pierces my abdomen. It drives itself through my outer flesh and thrusts itself deeper into my naked skin. It twists itself around in circles, tearing my insides with every movement. Another knife impales me, then another, and another ripping apart my guts like a paper shredder. My assailant must be skilled, for she knows how to butcher me in perfect synchronization as the serrated blades slice me up in absolute unity. She must be going for a clean cut judging by the way she’s carving me. Her strokes are powerful and strong, yet concentrated on the one area that she aims to eviscerate. She continues to stab, relentlessly poking holes in me until my abdomen resembles Swiss cheese.
Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?
My eyes fly open and I look down at my throbbing abdomen, almost expecting to see knives protruding from my body and the wounds spewing blood in all directions. My assailant has disappeared unnoticed back into my dream and has taken her attempted murder weapons with her. She has left me for dead and shrouded my broken body with my own sheets and blankets. My roommate’s congested snores fill the small dorm room. I smell the waning aroma of eucalyptus and lavender oil from the diffuser that I turned on to help me sleep and the awakening smell of percolating caffeine coming from the kitchen. I look over at my clock and there is still a 15-minute window left for her to return and finish me off before I have to get ready for class. Yet, the pain continues in her absence. I attempt to roll my aching body off my lumpy twin XL bed, but my abdomen howls at me for daring to move even the slightest bit. I cover my mouth to prevent the howl from escaping and waking my roommate as I recoil back into the safety of my warm sheets.
My attacker has tried to trap me in my bed without even binding me, and she has attempted to convince my abdomen to prevent me from escaping her clutches. I taste iron as I gnaw on my bottom lip and try to swing my lower half onto the dingy dorm-room carpet far below. My translucent enemy has escaped from my dreams and is hiding under my bed; however, as she pulls the carpet out from under me, my feet hit the floor and my body collapses in a writhing heap. She is swift as a ninja as she overcomes me and impales me again and again, more forcefully this time, with a set of freshly sharpened steel daggers that annihilate my insides when I attempt to right myself. The faded blue carpet scrapes against my flesh like sandpaper as I drag my body upwards, grabbing the cold wooden bedpost for support.
What’s wrong with me? My nails desperately claw into the
cream walls as I walk towards the living room with my raw wounds still seeping out, turning my head and scanning the hallway for another ambush from my invisible foe. My body gives out and I land on the loveseat, groaning. I should call 911 and tell the operator that someone has invaded my home and is attempting to bludgeon me to a bloody pulp, but instead I call my mother.
“Have you tried lying on your left side? Is it gas pain?” Perhaps her doubt comes from all the times I faked having an incurable ailment in elementary school so I could stay home. Why else would you doubt that your daughter has knives protruding from the same place where you were once joined together for nine months?
“No, mom, it’s not gas pain.” A knife wound cannot be soothed by a Gas-X tablet.
“Well, give it ten more minutes and if it gets worse, get someone to drive you to the hospital and call me as soon as you get there.” Her anxiety still spills past the glass screen despite the calm facade she’s putting on through my speakers. I can feel her vice grip strangling the plastic case of her phone, as she knows that she can’t be there to diagnose, treat, and micromanage her own flesh and blood.
I pause and entertain the thought of waiting another ten minutes and seeing if my new foe will raise the bloodstained white flag in defeat. How many more lacerations will she inflict if I lay here wounded, vulnerable, and afraid? How much more pain will she put me through? I can’t give her the satisfaction of taking another ten minutes away from my life.
“Well good morning, beautiful,” my groggy boyfriend says when he picks up, expecting me to greet him with a sweet morning birdsong. He has no idea that an invader is stabbing his girlfriend to death on the other side of the screen.
“Scott, I need you to take me to the hospital,” I say through clenched teeth.
My attacker is livid now that she knows her window of time is closing. She is relentless; driving her bloody knives deeper into me inflicting blow after agonizing blow, causing me to stifle a banshee scream.
“I’ll be over in ten.”
Harsh white light illuminates the bland room. The eerie smell of sterile medical instruments creeps in through the sliding glass door that leads to the nurses’ station. A synchronized cacophony of clicks, beeps, and unintelligible medical jargon is the everrepeating hospital playlist. Scott’s quick pulse beats on my pale, clammy hand as he holds onto me. I know that he’s trying to be the steady and unmoving rock in this situation, but rocks don’t have the pulse of a hummingbird. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara, as I have been refused food and water in case they have to wheel me into emergency surgery. The only liquid that touches my tongue is the leftover blood from biting the inside of my lips to suppress the screams when the doctor pushed down on my stab wounds, asking me “is this where it hurts?” Tears streamed down my twisted face as I nodded yes. My attacker, however, has gone with the nurses and doctors to examine the results of my blood tests, urinalysis, CT scan, pelvic exam, and ultrasound, no doubt pleased with her handiwork. I am
left to wait.
The sliding glass door that separates me from the unknown finally opens and my doctor emerges with an unreadable expression on her face. The wheels of her gray metal swivel chair glide against the tile floor as she approaches my bed to deliver me the results. Can she pull the knives out of my body already? Isn’t that what doctors are supposed to do when their patient is mortally wounded?
“So your results came back. All your blood work looked good, no problems there...” Even her excellent bedside manner cannot hide the “but” that’s coming; I can hear the heaviness in her voice before she says it.
“But, your ultrasound and CT scan show that you have a number of cysts on your left ovary, and I think one of them is either a hemorrhagic cyst or an endometrioma.” Her piercing blue eyes blink at me, expecting some kind of reaction to that statement as if I know what either of those two words mean.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you need to confirm this with a specialist as soon as possible, but basically the cyst causing you pain is leaking tissue and blood into the rest of your body. If your cyst is hemorrhagic, it’s just going to continue to do that until it bursts, like a normal cyst...” She pauses; my attacker sharpens her knives once more, ready to deliver her final blow.
“If an endometrioma, however, it may be an indicator that you have endometriosis or post-ovarian cyst syndrome, and you may have to undergo surgery to have it drained as it is likely to cause problems with fertility or other things later on.”
My attacker creeps up to the side of the bed and stands beside the doctor, looming over me and sneering. She has chosen to reveal herself now; no longer hiding in the shadows of anonymity, but in plain sight, illuminated by the clinical hospital lights. Her eyes lock with mine as her last knife impales me, causing pain to radiate throughout my body. My 3.3-centimeter assailant has been revealed to me. How strange; she carries her anguish in her glistening eyes as I do. Her mouth trembles in time with my own quivering lips.
Et tu Brute? How could you do this to me?
