Heres A Story.

Its not done, so umm, stfu?

Chapter 1

The tooth brush made an odd sound as its bristles rub up against my teeth, like a prostitute in a European night club rubs up against your jeans. I scrub, wash and then spit a red liquid into the sink along with a tooth. This is not a good sign at all. I frantically slam my hands to the bottom of the sink and shakily swipe my hands along its cold wet ridges attempting to grab my severed tooth. The tooth rolls around the rim of the hole in the middle of the sink sort of like a basketball around a net. It all seems to happen so slowly, but when I really think about it, it all happened in a matter of seconds.

I tongue the roof of my mouth and slowly slide my tongue to find the tooth that somehow managed to free itself from my gummy rule. To my surprise it happened to be my front tooth. “Fuck,” I sigh in disbelief. Blood splashed up onto my toes, which is what made me realize I was losing a substantial amount of blood. I quickly grab a cloth and begin to wipe up the floor. The blood began to spread all over my tiles like Paris Hiltons herpes on your cock in night vision.

I decide to make a phone call, and this call changed my life forever. I dial seven digits and a man comes to my door wielding a mop and various cleaning products. We greet each other and I lead him into my basement. I had a cloth held against my mouth to stop from spreading the mess. I manage to explain my situation about what happened through the tattered bloody rag to the cleaner. “How long ago did this happen sir? The blood is starting to crust to the tiles...” The cleaner points out.

“I don’t know, half an hour to an hour ago, I suppose. Why?” I respond with the thick accent of my blood cloth. He looks at my face puzzled. His look then shifts from my face to the floor, then again at the crimson cloth dripping fluids, held up against my face. “What is it?” I mumble.

“Why are you still bleeding sir?” He refers to me as sir, to show respect I presume. It feels weird to be referred to as an authority figure. I had always used sir towards my elders, or someone who has accomplished something great, but as far as this man is concerned, all I’ve done is lost a tooth, and a lot of blood. His words finally reach my brain. Letters form in my brain all jumbled around. I watch them take formation in my mind, and they spell out a word I haven’t thought of for a long time. He-mo-feel-ia.

The image of a man lying in a bed blurs into my mind. I’m sitting in a chair next to him while my face becomes hydrated by tears. He tells me he’ll be okay and that he just got a cut. Everything is fine. Next I see a tombstone whose only company is a bouquet of flowers. I see myself walking in the opposite direction wearing only black, once again, with tears caressing my bare jaw.

“Oh shit-“I frantically scramble around my home searching for a phone. This time I dial three numbers instead of seven. Within minutes the sound of a siren parades outside my front door. I give the cleaner around one hundred dollars and I make a break for the ambulance still binding the cloth to my face with my right hand. I explain to one of the people with the lovely white jackets about my whole situation, hemophilia and all. The ambulance stops by a nice welcoming building. As I walk through the revolving doors, I feel as if I’m being hugged.

The man cleans my house while I’m away. He washed the tiles while I’m being assisted at the hospital. He changes my life while I’m away, he changes it drastically.

Chapter 2

After the doctors pump me full of drugs and whatnot, I have a nice dream. There was a pretty field, lots of flowers, and some nice men wearing white coats wielding clip boards. It occurs to me that the last part wasn’t a dream.

“You’re finally awake.” The doctor says to me. “It turns out you don’t actually have hemophilia, and instead you popped a blood vessel while brushing.” A tear sneaks its way down my cheek, then hides in my facial scruff. The tombstone belonged to my father, you know, the one accompanied by the flowers. He died of hemophilia a few years ago. Once he died I laid dormant in my room for three weeks straight. After all of the trauma I had to withstand, the disease sort of got lost in the mix, and I never really got around to actually getting tested.

“Am I alright now?” I ask the doctor politely. His eyes evade making contact with mine. I feel perplexed and puzzled. “W-What is it?” My heart drops in my chest; do I have leukemia, a tumor, or a misplaced rib? The doctor fixes his eyes on a faded purple lamp.

With his eyes glued off of mine he mouths uncomfortably, “I guess you could say that.” The look on my face asks for more. “Well, medically speaking, yes, you’re fine.” The white coat riding the man leaves the room without a single word of departure. Two uniformed officers enter my room wielding a note pad, a starbucks coffee, and a spiffy regulation pen. They both shoot me a serious look to let me know they aren’t fooling around.

“W-what seems to be the problem officers?” I can barely spit out the sentence. Sweat begins to perspire on my forehead, and my hands begin to tremble. Thoughts of unpaid parking and speeding tickets fill my mind.

“Mr. Portovich, are you at all affiliated with a Ms. Jane O’Neil?” He takes a sip out of his coffee. His moustache soaks up the coffee like a human sponge. My eyes get lost in this bristles that make up his upper lip. A sleeve comes to greet the moustache; ‘hello’ the sleeve says to the moustache. Before my mind fabricates a funny children’s joke, my attention is recaptured by the phrase, “Answer the question Mr. Portovich.”

“T-the name sounds familiar, but I don’t really recall. I’m sorry if I’m out of line here, but why do you ask…sir?” I wipe the salty moisture from atop my forehead. The officer shows me the photograph of a mangled body and I freeze like rain in winter. My muscles tense up and I almost throw up. “Is that Ms. Jane O’Neil?”

The overweight, clean shaven officer says all sarcastically, “Wow, nothing gets by you. Listen punk, we took this picture in your house.” He explains that the maid I had hired stumbled across this body while cleaning my house. Thoughts begin to fill my head. Did this cleaner start trying to loot my house while I was away, or did he in fact commit the crime itself? “We wanna know everything you’ve been doing for the past week- no month! You got that kid?” I lose my mind in this man’s third neck. It flops to and fro in synchronization with the words he speaks, like an exotic belly dance. “You even listenin’ to me?!”

I glance down at his badge. “Listen officer umm-“I tense up readying a sturdy tongue lashing. The plump man spoke with a New Jersey-esque accent.

His neck beings to writhe, “I’m Officer Jones, and this here is Officer Sanburg, but you can just call me Jesus fucking Christ to save time...punk.” My mind begins to deliberate a funny saying to respond to this man with. I don’t really take him too seriously due to how easily he sparks up.

“I-Isn’t that more syllables?” I stutter at Officer Jones. My mouth has gotten me into trouble before, however never something as serious as this. His neck begins its ritual.

“Eh Lou, we got a funny guy here. You know what we do with funny guys right?” Jones says to Sanburg. He called him Lou; a first name basis, ‘how cute’ I think to myself. “Looks like you’re gonna come with us. Maybe you could come see our house? How does that sound to you Portovich? Good?” My look answers his question. “I don’t really care ‘bout what you think to be frank. You better put on something warmer, ‘cause it’s real cold out, punk.”

As I join the police for a silent ride, thoughts of my house being quarantined start to chip away at my chance of redemption. There was no hope, I was framed, set up, but why.