A blood van has just parked outside. Don’t look surprised; you’ve let the summonses pile up over the past fortnight or so. A man and a woman get out. He checks your house number. She opens the boot and gets the equipment for taking blood and, where necessary, bodily restraint.
Whichever one’s knocking, they make it sound friendly. They have the same smile when you open the door. “Hiya,” she chimes. “We’re from blood services.” They show their IDs. “We understand you haven’t been able to call in.”
They don’t give your clutter a second glance.
“Could you please confirm your blood type?”
You’re already in the chair, rolling up your sleeve.
You let them crack on: the antiseptic swab, the sharp intrusion, the long wait while you bleed into a bag. Your heart’s going like the clappers. The lady unwraps a juice carton, stabs the straw in, and holds it to your lips.
She says, “We’d like to take more.”
Her colleague has another bag ready to go. “It’s for a little girl.”
She shows you her photo. The resemblance between the three of them is unmistakable.
You ask, “How much does she need?”
“She needs all of it.”
By day, Gareth Durasow works in a gents tailoring shop where he can measure a bloke’s inside leg at a glance. When it’s quiet he writes flash fiction – some of which you can read in Ellipsis, Reflex Fiction, The Fiction Pool, and the forthcoming Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology 2019. He is a STORGY flash fiction prize winner. His poetry collection Endless Running Games is available from Dog Horn Publishing. You can find him on Twitter: @garethdurasow.