GAUZE

The pain that accompanies a burn is sharp and powerful. The smell of searing and bubbling flesh beneath scorched skin, as well as the tremendous ache beneath the muscle that no cream or salve can soothe. Surrounding me is a shallow, cramped space that has no more to offer than a broken down end table and dustbunnies. I lean back against the wall and feel a spiderweb cling to the hem of my teeshirt; maybe one of the only things that is truly left of it. The still air feels cold and unwelcoming with my movement, brushing over my skin and causing the rise of prickly bumps on my body I couldn’t provide a name to.

My wound, however, pulsates and oozes. The mutilated flesh seems to writhe beneath my gaze, and every time I stare at it too long, I feel like the blood drains from my head all the way down to my weak limb. I feel like my arm will pop like seen in those silly caricatures from I’ve seen in magazines, a burst with poorly timed and belittling onomatopoeia following its explosion.

I focus on the wound and do my best to remember absolutely anything I was taught. I instead recall the military base in my burrow; an exemplary model of mankind’s ability to fight back. Fort Sentinel was the farthest from the human idea of comfort imaginable, at least when pit against all of the comfort I have experienced. I remember Sergeant Ambrose, a burly man with a physique admirable when analyzing our circumstances. I used to gaze upon his large, defined triceps and his hefty yet symmetrical back muscle. I did my best not to gaze at his gut which I assumed could only come from cheap liquor, as it ruined the illusion of hope.

Sergeant Ambrose had given us a review on different injuries. Cadets who were expected to pursue the medical field inside the burrows were provided with in-depth explanations on what can be used to treat what. I can’t say the same, as cadets who were expected to enter the field after graduation were merely lectured on how bad the shit hurts, and where you can find a good alternative because all of us knew good-and-damn-well there’d never be access to that beyond the walls.

“Burns are a deadly and yet common injury.” When Ambrose talked, there was an evident gap between his two front teeth, as well as a missing canine, that spit would often fly through. I did my best not to notice that either. “‘Yer best bet, as they’d tell the pussies over there, is–”

“What degree of burn is this regarding?” Ambrose was taken aback, and so was I. For the first time during the entirety of knowing Ambrose, maybe two years then, he had been cut off during lecture. I didn’t exactly even know the consequences because such a thing was never even discussed.

My better instincts told me not to acknowledge it, to stare straight and keep my back perfectly poised the way a good soldier always does. I did not oblige with instinct, and leaned forward on the very points of my feet. Down the line of straight faced cadets was McKiery. To say I knew him from birth would mean absolutely nothing, as I knew all of my peers since birth and had never held a conversation with any of them. When I think back on it, being born at the same hospital with twenty-seven different people and growing up in the same place should have created some sort of connection between us all. It didn’t.

Blake McKiery was handsome, and I’ve never been much to acknowledge the conventional attraction of others. It has always proved useless in the long-run. Eye candy will not save the human race, nor will it keep anybody alive in the majority of situations. He had tussled, curly brown hair that fell down all sides of his face and bobbed when he turned his head. A thin, upturned nose that was glistening with sweat at all given times and small traces of acne against full, rosy cheeks. Now, McKiery was handsome and a fool.

“The fuck was that?” The sergeant inquired. It was less of a question, as we all heard McKiery speak out of turn and with what seemed like the most volume he could muster.

“What degree of burn–”

“I heard you.” Ambrose cut him off and began to stalk towards him. I expected a closed fist punch, maybe if lucky an open-handed slap. I expected yelling, thrashing, and screaming. The part of me that was conditioned to be a soldier expected for Ambrose to draw his pistol from the belt on his hip and paint the dirt with the blood and brains of a twelve year old.

There was none of that. There was the same smell of sweat and pubescent boy, the same heavy breathing that came out in shudders from nervous cadets, and the kicking of McKiery’s feet against pebbles and hard dirt. In fact, Sergeant Ambrose stepped back a few feet and stood in the center before us. He pardoned his interruption and elaborated on the disinfection and treatment of burns, emphasizing the word “degree” through his speech like a petty child.

After the lecture, Blake McKiery was pulled aside. I watched from afar before I decided to leave. I needed to understand the reward for following the rules and the risk of breaking them. I gathered none of that from observing their conversation. Quiet nods, precise hand movement, and respectful posture. All the things that made a civilized conversation between men. At the end, Ambrose reached to shake hands with McKiery and he turned his back and marched away.

I would have thought there were no consequences to the actions of McKiery, that anybody could do anything wrong. I was poorly mistaken, as McKiery did not return to the barracks that night nor the night after. McKiery did not return until a few days subsequent to his fifteenth birthday. He stood in the line before an entirely new Sergeant, his face holding an unfamiliar cruelty so sharp that I hardly recognized it was him until roll call. New, defined muscles enveloped his body, covering the shell of the scrawny boy who spoke out of turn during lecture and disappeared. His hair was buzzed, and most noticeably, a thick and jagged vine of crimson scar tissue reached across his once perfect nose, stopping at his bold upper eyebrow.

Wherever Blake McKiery had gone, he had lost something. I never pinpointed whether or not it was his autonomy, dignity, humanity, or something else that was of more value to him and only him. All I knew is I never wanted to test the boundaries.

I now know how to treat my wound, but I lack the energy to maneuver the dingy shack that has become my resting place. To my comfort in which I possess very little, the windows are so dirty that they cannot be peered into. I can’t peer out of them either, though. I lean back and suck in air through my teeth. It burns the back of my throat, reverberation of thick smoke polluting my lungs and trachea. I can’t remember the last time I had a sore throat.