Bloodstrike

One of the first things I learnt about medical school was years back when I was barely a schoolgoing kid. Somehow or rather against my strict parents' wishes, I managed to catch the infamous opening montage for Dr Quincy with the eager medical interns swooning in a progressive row after the unveiling of the presumably unpalatable corpse.

Contrary to popular expectation ( and to my utmost disappointment ), I never did any such thing - nor did any of my first year classmate, though I recall a girl begging off to regurgitate her less-than-hearty breakfast. I never was squeamish around dead bodies. Found it easy enough to even have my dinner with them barely five feet away, the stench of rotting flesh barely concealed by the overriding scent of lemon zest zealously sprayed by the morgue attendants.

So obviously spurting blood, congealing stomach contents, spilling guts and other assorted bodily fluids fail to impress me. At the most despite my vampiric reputation, I'll just shrug and apply myself to vigorously scrubbing the foreign matter off with visions of Lady MacBeth. Out, damned spot! Out I say!


Maybe I'll be safe here!
However just today when I was wandering alone down a suspiciously empty corridor leading to the underground theater, I found myself looking back - perhaps some latent sixth sense acting as a warning. It was like a scene from a badly edited low-budget Asian horror flick. Horrifyingly ghastly streaks of blood were smeared like a trail everywhere I went leaving handprints and fingerprints on the doors and the cabinets. Add that to the eeriely flickering corridor lights in the empty, seemingly neverending corridor and I almost felt like screaming.

Turned to streak away while yelling hysterically for help when I noticed a gory clump of blood attached to my blue scrubs. No doubt my hair had turned white by that time. Searched the halls for mysteriously floating maidens in red possibly clutching headless bleeding chickens ( or even the more regular hospital pranksters ) but none of the usual or less-than-usualhospital spectres seemed close at hand.

Mantras of hail marys came to my lips and then I noticed the cut on my finger.

Guess that God was actually listening since a quick MTV montage of shots flashed before my eyes. Powdered gloves. Cold air. Dry skin. Add all that together and you get chapped - though relatively painless - fingers with occasional blisters and cuts.

Hence the bloodstains.

And hopefully that's the closest contact I ever have with the supernatural.