Cassandra Smith

written from the view point of my 5 year old self: I’m laying on a table in a paper dress. Mom and Dad stand on either side of me, wearing heavy aprons of armor. But they only gave me this paper dress. And if mom and dad need so much protection from what is going to happen… who is protecting me? A man in a white coat spreads my knees and they jerk back together. My cheeks feel hot and the panic of protest rises in my throat. The doctor explains he is only applying a numbing gel. His hands are too cold but he is already touching me in a place Mom and Dad told me no one should touch. The fluorescent lights above me go blurry as my eyes fill with tears. Mom squeezes my hand tight and I notice her eyes are wet like mine. My ears are ringing loud and the doctor’s voice sounds so far away. A sudden pinch in a place I don’t have a name for brings me back to the present. The pressure so unfamiliar and foreign that it sets off sirens in my chest. Before the fire can escape my lips, they are filling me with liquid ice. The cold is rushing into me. All the grownups are staring at a tv screen by my head. The doctor says they are looking to see what is happening inside of me. I glance at the screen to distract myself from the growing pain in my lower belly. It’s not at all what I expected and I think something must be wrong. There is no sugar or spice or anything nice. I’m made up of nothing but black and white fuzz. The liquid ice has filled my bladder like a balloon growing inside me. I feel like I’m going to burst and it hurts so bad my toes curl. I really need to pee. But I can’t pee here. Vinegar and shame soaked mornings taught me that. I have to make it to the toilet. But the doctor is telling me it’s time to pee. Here on the table in front of everyone.