Read Online The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson - Free Book Online Page B

having someone stab you with a needle.”
    Since she seemed determined to view the doctor’s visit as pain and suffering, I decided to let him cut off Black Beauty to ease the strain. My plan was to laugh off the jab to show Mother how easy it was. In the end I had to suppress my panic because the doctor was afraid he’d jab me in the eye if I didn’t sit still.
    â€œThere!” The doctor said when he finally managed to stick the needle in the right spot. “Now we let the anesthetic take and meanwhile turn to the big matter.”
    He walked across the room in his green tailcoat, a flat tweed cap on his head and knee-high leather boots on his feet, and fetched a small case he’d left at the door. The locks on the case clicked open and he took out a tray with numerous small medical bottles that were marked: UKRAIN 5mg – 1 AMPOULE AM TAG. He produced needles, cotton wool, and gauze from a small leather pouch. He placed everything onto Mother’s bed, took off his coat, and sat beside her. He then tied a rubber tube around her upper arm and used his fingers to find a suitable vein.
    â€œNow, Mrs. Briem, I know that you don’t like injections but I can assure you that my needles are the least painful injections available for Ukrain shots. You saw how easy it was for your son.”
    â€œTrooper is completely ignorant when it comes to injections. Is there really no other way? Can’t I just drink it?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry, the drug really has to be given intravenously if it is to work. You will need a daily shot for five weeks to begin with. After that we’ll have to see, depending on how your body reacts to the treatment. There, we’re done!”
    Mother stared in astonishment at the doctor, like a person who’d just woken to find they’d slept through a war. “What? You’re done?”
    â€œYes, all done.”
    â€œDid you see that, Trooper? How he did that? I must admit I didn’t feel it a thing. You’re obviously no Nazi, doctor.”
    â€œPleased to hear that.”
    â€œYou see, I played Herta Oberhauser once, she was a nurse who used needles to torture people. She was as obsessed with needles as Catherine the Great was with lovers. It truly is a miracle, doctor, that you’re already done. I could visit the Museum of Torture now. Show them how to take it.”
    She stood up and poured herself a schnapps, her face like an atom bomb indicating the travesties awaiting the city’s museums. The left side of my own face was steadily becoming more paralyzed. I felt like I’d fallen asleep after drinking glue.
    â€œLook at you!” she said and pointed at me. “Quivering like a leaf over a petty mole! I’ve been telling my son for years now that not all women are into men with moles.”
    I made vague grunting noises in protest and used strong gestures to strengthen my case.
    â€œIt’s true, Trooper. That mole has overshadowed everything that is charming about you.”
    â€œOh?” I managed to snort despite the numbness. “Then I must declare that many women are into fungus.”
    â€œI must invite them into my museum one day,” the doctor said and slid the knife up to my right temple. “This little guy will have pride of place in my collection. Even such a tiny organism can grow up to two or three inches if cultivated properly.”
    I didn’t know what kind of psychedelic drug the good doctor had mixed into the local anesthetic, but I suddenly went cold at the sight of the knife, no longer so sure that Mother’s claims of the inherent sadism of the medical profession were unfounded. Wasn’t there something perverse about a man who collected abnormalities from people’s faces?
    â€œI’m not sure we should do this,” I stuttered, shying away from the knife. “Maybe we should let Black Beauty stay in his natural environment?”
    â€œYou won’t