1 Minute to Midnight
Part 1: Diane Inch
Written by Juliet Clare Kelway
Diane’s hands shook as she reached for the collar of her shirt. Staring into the mirror, she prepared herself. With great difficultly, she brought her arm up, pulled her shirt up her back and over her head. As she did, the tight fabric clung to her skin; grasping at a bandage on her shoulder.
Diane freed herself of the oppressive material and gripped the sink in agony. After regaining her breath and settling her heart rate, she angled her body to the mirror, her back partially in view.
Every vertebrae could be seen pushing its way through her thin skin. Her small frame appeared jagged. Years of malnourishment and inadequate caloric intake left her with little fat to cover her bones.
On one of her shoulder blades was a large plastic bandaid; the ends of which were starting to tug away from the skin, leaving black glue marks.
Terrified of what was beneath, Diane slowly brought her finger tips to the edge of the bandaid and tugged. It held strong.
She clenched her jaw and with every ounce of might, pulled harder on the edge. The bandaid began to release its grip; the skin extending as far as its collagen would allow.
Diane slammed her hand down on the edge of the sink quickly so as to prevent herself from falling. Now three-quarters of the way removed, the bandaid swung back loosely.
Beneath was an oozing sore; a gangrenous look to it. The skin was eaten back, revealing bone and what little muscle she had below the flesh.
In that moment Diane knew what she had signed up for and how she would pay…
About a month earlier, Diane had been standing at the bus stop on her way home from work, her weight settling unevenly on her right leg.
The visage of a small, lost, tortoiseshell cat drew her eyes to the flyers posted up against the glass shell of the bus stop. Amidst signs for local community council meetings was one looking for patients for a new medical study.
The details were sparse; the largest font reserved for compensation, not information. Your body in exchange for cash. Research facilities tried their hardest not to make the whole exchange sound like prostitution, but it was effectively the same.
Unknowns ran through her mind like a list of side effects in a drug commercial. At the end of the list was a simple name — Morgan.
Diane loved Morgan more than anything else in this world. What she couldn’t have in her life, he would have in his. A promise easier said than kept. Desperation is cruel. Scarcity is perilous.
A clipboard with an inordinate amount of paperwork slid across the table towards Diane. On every page there was a highlighted section for her signature. Touching pen to paper she filled out her name — Diane Inch. Her age — 28. And her birthdate — 07/10/1992.
Diane looked around the waiting room at the various applicants. A man slept, head leaning against a corner of the pale blue walls; neck crooked. A double chin slipped out as he exhaled. His arms crossed over his belly hiding a stained t-shirt.
The woman across from her picked at her cuticles, which split back away from her nails. Her hands were cracked and ashen; her face lined. The sleeves of her jacket were frayed.
Suddenly, a young woman appeared from the back room; her middle finger flicked up at the nurse who escorted her out.
“Waste of my fucking time”, the woman exhaled as she slammed her purse down on the seat next to Diane.
The young woman riffled through her bag, hurriedly. Diane sneaked a glance at her purse. As the woman moved several items aside, a pacifier caught Diane’s attention.
“If you’ve got any, don’t put it down. They disqualify you”, the woman said as she locked eyes with Diane.
There was a haziness to the young woman’s gaze that Diane couldn’t quite pinpoint. Possibly an addiction of some sort.
“They should have fucking said that on the flyer!” The woman’s voice increased in volume as the comment moved from Diane’s direction to that of the nurse at the front desk.
The young woman threw her purse over her shoulder and left without putting her jacket on.
Diane’s eyes moved to the clock on the wall; Morgan would be getting home from school in an hour.
She imagined him sitting there alone; the glow of the television illuminating his face. An image of Morgan opening the cupboards in the kitchen looking for a snack, only to find several stray grains of rice hiding near the door hinges. Immediately, Diane scratched out a box on the form and checked another.
The paper used to cover the examination chair was crumpled. Diane brought herself up on top of it, her elbows poking out like sticks from beneath her robe. The doctor stepped into her line of sight.
“What do you know of this study?” He asked, a casual air to his voice.
“Nothing really.”
“You have agreed to subject yourself to a preliminary examination.”
“I understand”, Diane said as confidently as possible, though her voice wavered.
“If we deem you to be an acceptable candidate, you will receive free healthcare, a stipend, and burial insurance in exchange for your participation in the study.”
“But what — ” Diane was cut off by the doctor.
“We’re expanding a healthcare program to your county, while simultaneously treating for any cases of ‘bad blood’. The program will ultimately benefit the community.”
Diane looked at him; gauging his sincerity.
“Do you consent?”
“Mom?” A voice came from just beyond Diane’s bathroom door.
As quickly as possible, she pulled her shirt back over her head, clenching her teeth against the pain. A churn in her stomach. She paused, head in the sink, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass.
“Are you there?” Morgan’s faint voice cried out.
Diane opened the bathroom door and greeted Morgan with a ruffle of his hair.
It was nearing dinner time and potatoes always take so fucking long to cook.
End.
