A stab in the heart is worth two in the ghetto

I have to say I was not totally unaware of what was inevitably going to happen.  It was sudden and very odd. 

The steel, 6 inches if not more – I couldn’t even bring myself to look at.  Wielding it like someone who would feature on the front page of a Most Wanted magazine – and not the version they send to your grandmother, either.  I’m sure I’d seen this weapon before in some crime programme.

I had seen documentaries on this before – I knew what was coming.  Ordered to sit down, to show my arms (a custom, I’m not sure why), my own wife enforcing the orders.  Told if I make a sound then this would hurt.  I had a suspicion that pain would be involved somewhere.  This whole thing was giving me a flash back to that time my lunch money was demanded from me – menaces from the school yard – the bully threatening me in a similar manner, me handing over my lunch pennies with tears running down my face, like now – the memories of being 15 rushing back. 

I had to stifle my sniffles – this moment of evil approaching – I offered to empty my pockets but I was restrained – I looked at MBW – laughing as she participated – in cohoots with this representative of the undead, a vampire in our midst – she stabbed my arm viciously – drawing blood – collecting it in her vial.  It was worth more to her than the £1.53 in small change in my left pocket.

This was cruel, heart breaking stuff.  It’s going to take me some time to get over it.  It isn’t helped by having watched “When Blood Tests Go Wrong” the night before and being handed a leaflet “Blood Clots Can Kill” as I entered the hospital. 

You can all help by sending digestives.

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