'Transformed', Snippet Two

I lie staring at the ceiling, even head motion limited. Most hospitals have televisions as I have so often told myself over the days. When I inquire, the tending nurse just smiles and nods, explaining that I am not in a hospital but a clinic. When I inquire what kind of clinic there comes an ominous smile and words urging me to rest.

‘All will be for the better,’ the advisement so matronly as she one by one releases a limb and offers a sponge bath.

The system of binding is impressive. Each cuff and strap is pulled to tautness through a buckle. A metal post is then slipped through a grommet hole, holding firm the tether, the post then capped by a powerful magnetic disk. Such is removed only by she with a small and simple device which temporarily reverses the magnetic field for quick release. As a result, limbs, waist belt and head gear can quickly be unfastened... and of course resecured... for bathing... and most gratefully to counter cramping.

So the hours of silent immobility bring thought. How did I get here?   

Memories... dinner with Taylor at a posh restaurant, Yvette’s, her favorite. Such has been rare since commencing divorce. Wine, a great meal, I try to be positive, civil in encouraging separation. I know she has a lover... possibly more than one. I hint that she can be free to socialize as she chooses, empathizing with her needs. No more clandestine rendevous.

Taylor... well... to be blunt... enjoys a certain... how shall I phrase it... aggressiveness in bed. And has on more then one occasion... ok... many occasions... suggested that in the size department the equipment of husband Maximilian Von Webring is inadequate. Our twelve months of conjugal undertakings before separation involved oral gratification... solely... with me as provider... never to receive reciprocation.   

So why not separate? I have assumed her resistance stems from her self image as an heiress, the supporter of museums, the appearances at charity black tie dinners, the memberships in snooty social clubs. Not only does divorce have stigma, but she certainly cannot drag before the aristocracy the bull studs with whom she prefers to fornicate.

No, I suppose up and coming public relations executive Maximilian Von Webring brings her a different form of status, relevancy in the world of business which dovetails with her eleemosynary pursuits.

But can I be sure?

The room door opens. Any diversion is welcomed. But the nurse just left and Dr. Gehorchen only visits daily.

In wheels a cart, pushed by a very pretty girl. Though dressed in white, she’s young for a nurse, most at the clinic middle aged, haughty and imposing.

“Good morning Mr. Von Webring. Your wife sent me.”

Seeing me so thoroughly bound seems to bring concern... initially. Yet in youthful aloofness, she quickly shrugs off my incapacitation and wheels the cart to my left side.

“I’m doing more and more guys these days. Used to be just at Halloween. But you know... this gender thing... it’s... well... guess we’re all a little confused...”

As I note the cart laden with various bottles, towels and small brushes, the girl palms my left hand and examines. She then smiles and turns her attention to the cart.   

“Guess I don’t have to tell you to stay still,” repressing a giggle. “They’ve got you tied down like some kind of serial killer. A Hannibal Lecter thing... though you’re not muzzled, ha, ha, ha.”

Her hands work my fingers... attention paid to my nails. It’s manicure I receive, taking her time, small talk ending.

Then the girl picks up a small bottle and shakes it.

“Your wife picked a nice shade. She said it would highlight your eyes... and it will,” the smile vibrant and charming.

With that the bottle is opened, held before my eyes, acetone filling my nostrils. Does the girl taunt?

It is nail polish!

“Lavender... very, very pretty Mr. Von Webring.”