I am a red blood cell. For one hundred days I lived in the body of Nick Douglas, young male, Western European descent, type O negative, low iron. Immediately after my formation, I was sent pumping through Nick’s heart, and out to the eyes, watching a sales lead. I was next sent to the brain, to feed a mental calculation of projected commissions. Back to the heart, then out to the hands for applause.
For the next three months I powered Nick’s body through his new job: practice pitches, paperwork, sales calls. I could always tell a sales call. The heart would race us around, but in the end I’d always head to Nick’s face as the prospect declined to buy.
In July, I joined a task force against a cold virus. I saw millions of brave white blood cells sacrificed to keep Nick upright, whole systems in the lungs and nose rushing to his aid as he insisted on heading out on sales calls. And I heard Nick disavow their work, blaming his sniffles on allergies—claiming that our defense campaign was a false flag allergic reaction. I was appalled. I planned revenge.
One’s closest kin are one’s blood relations. Half the genes in my nucleus came from Nick’s mother, half from his father. It was inevitable his only sale would be to the mother, for the father. But I credit my careful work—the right neuron fed the right chemical, the right muscle led the right direction—with guiding Nick’s hand to the right page of the catalog, leading his mother to order a pocket knife.
Vengeance takes patience and is not guaranteed. Nick’s family belonged to a popular blood cult with an expansionist mandate. To fulfill this mandate, Nick was scheduled to travel and preach a story of bodily sacrifice. Fate or fortune brought the knife into Nick’s hand on the day of his departure. I rushed to the brain, sending the right wrong signal to his fingers. I flew to his left palm, and then happily, cathartically, through the newly carved gap and into the open air.
I lie now in the waste bin of a gas station bathroom, embedded in a scrap of tissue with my brothers in arms. We are buried under cigarette packs, receipts, and a half-eaten Entenmann’s glazed. Did my blood sacrifice bring salvation? It’s not for me to know. But as I left Nick’s body, I swear it, I felt in him too a rush of freedom.
This is the best one yet!