Feeling No Pain
By Neal Suit
In the sixth grade I announced I had a rare medical condition that prevented me from feeling pain. I can tell you why the idea stuck in my brain like a piece of day-old chicken clinging between molars. Mrs. Grissom, a paunchy old lady who still thought sixth graders believed in Santa Claus, asked what superpower we’d want. Flying. Invisibility. Super-strength. X-ray vision. All the usual suspects. But I wanted the incapacity to feel pain. I wanted numbness to replace aching, bruises, and worry.
I worried about a lot. The upcoming dance and the inevitable awkwardness of slow songs. The crack in my voice as bones, cartilage, and vocal chords ballooned. Why I didn’t care about the peeks under skirts and down training bras that so many of the other boys coveted like ancient treasure. The furtive whispers in the lunchroom and wondering whether they were about me.
But I didn’t reveal my wish when Mrs. Grissom called on me. I gritted my teeth and choked out the unoriginal “flying,” the third person that day to do so.
At lunch, I gained attention by stabbing my left hand with a dull metal fork provided by the cafeteria. Droplets of red bubbled up like a dying volcano. There were gasps and cries at my self-inflicted wound, as I casually wiped away the trickles of blood with a napkin. I absorbed the stares and gawks like a plant leaning into sunlight. When asked what I was doing, I calmly explained that I could not feel physical pain.
I couldn’t tell you exactly why I made up this ridiculous lie that I was immune to pain. Maybe I was tired of the new kid, Bryce, getting all the attention. I hated how everyone gave him bared-teeth giggles at his stupid jokes. Or maybe it was the girls starting to receive sideways glances and accidental pelvic bumps. When I revealed my day-old secret, everyone stared at me, as if I had told them I could actually fly and they expected me to rip my shirt off and reveal the red and yellow Superman symbol I’d kept hidden from them since kindergarten.
My blood and heart raced as they tested me. Julia cross-examined me with the look of a doctor encountering a never-before-seen disease. Why did you not mention this before? What about when you cried in the third grade when a softball hit you in the nose? What would happen if you shoved a pencil under your fingernail?
As expected, the first ambush came from Tim, the class bully, who punched me in the gut with the imprint of a soon-to-blame-others-for-his-shortcomings grin. My stomach felt like a bag of cooked spaghetti noodles jammed into a punctured, fist-sized ball. Jenny kicked me in the shin, leaving an eggplant-bruise that resembled a map of South America. Between Bogota and Rio de Janeiro, a purple sea star formed. Domonic raised his left arm, used his index finger as a scope, and fired an apple at my head from his right hand. It struck my temple and oozed spittled crimson. He ended up playing three years of minor league baseball.
Domonic received a trip to the middle school principal’s office and a tedious scripted lecture on thinking about his behavior and controlling his impulses. He was also the beneficiary of an early trip home and a one-day suspension.
Domonic’s marksmanship earned me an appointment at the nurse’s office and the cold, indifferent hands of Nurse Galloway. She scowled at every scratch and cut, as if she could shame them into vanishing. I did not flinch or scream or grimace. I lodged the pain behind my tongue and forced it back into my chest.
Nurse Galloway glared at me like a festering sore, trying to will me into non-existence. Or maybe just into a state of absence so she could refocus on General Hospital playing on an 18-inch black-and-white Zenith wedged into the corner of her office. She placed a tic-tac-toe shaped bandage on my temple, carelessly trapping strands of hair, and asked me if it hurt. I smiled and said not a bit. Denying pain felt almost as good as not experiencing it.
She gave me two white orbs of aspirin and ordered me to get some rest and clean the wound that night with soap and water. My mouth wilted as I thought about ripping off the bandage.
“Will it leave a scar?” I asked.
“It might,” Nurse Galloway said.
I instantly felt better. Everyone noticed scars.
THE END