Pulse

I used to stare, with a kind of hunger, at the place in my wrist where the vein is close to the surface, a slight trace of blue, just raised enough to provide a texture to the topography of the anatomy there.


I remember when I was a little girl, I would trace the veins on my mother's hands, push them down only to see them spring right back up again. I saw lettering in their lines, would turn her hand over, and over again, to trace them with my small finger. I wanted to know why they were blue, why they were placed as they were, what they were for.


And then, when I was older, darker, I would stare at the veins in my wrist. I knew exactly what they were for. I would place my fingers just so, like nurses do, and feel my own heart, steady, certain, unfaltering.

Sometimes, I wished I felt as steady as my heart, as sure of each beat, of each step. I wondered, if I ran that cold, fine steel along their length, could I be certain of what followed?

Can one be a vampire of one's own self? Curious, seeking sustenance from one's own veins? The stories tell of an ecstasy that is coupled with the act of exsanguination - they make it sound so sexy, so sensual.

I think they have no idea what the sting, the sharp bite, the slow drain, the lassitude, the burn and numbness, the eventual fade into darkness is like. I think the hunger that one may feel for one's own blood isn't the same as that storybook hunger - it's deeper, more urgent, more visceral and less quantifiable. It's old, older than the tales of creatures creeping in the shadows, feeding on their fellow humans, bathing in their blood, committing horrific acts of starvation and survival.

I used to place two fingers gently on my neck, feel the blood rushing just below the surface, primal, powerful, the very essence of life. I'd count, one, two, three, four, constant, a living metronome, steadier than my spiritual self, internal self, felt. I was shaky, clinging to the semblance of normalcy, desperate for someone, something, to reach out, gather me up, place me back on firm, more realistic ground that the fantastic landscape my own mind had painted over reality, but my heart...my heart had it's own agenda and kept beating, steady, reassuring, even in my wildest moments.

My son traces the veins in my hands. He turns them over, and over again, finding patterns, touch light as a butterfly's kiss. He knows what they are for, why they are there, why they are blue, and what it means when we press our fingers just so and feel that concurrent rhythm, his and mine.