Wetlands by Charlotte Roche Page A

hospital you’re subject to a strict schedule that must have been designed by a lunatic. Starting at six in the morning the nurses bounce loudly around the hallways. They come in with coffee, they want to clean the room or clean me. You’re trapped in a beehive full of worker bees, all flying around and tending to something. Very loudly most of the time. All sick people really want to do is sleep, and that’s the one thing they won’t let you do here. If after a bad night—and every night is bad in a hospital—I want to catch up on sleep, there are at least eight people conspiring against my doing this. Nobody who works in the hospital pays attention to whether someone is sleeping when they enter the room. They all just yell “Morning” and loudly do whatever it is they have to do. They couldjust drop the “Morning” and quietly and considerately take care of their duties in the room. They have something against sleep here. I heard once that you’re not supposed to let people with depression sleep too much because it intensifies the depression. But this isn’t a nuthouse. I sometimes think they use the constant interruptions to make sure the patients are still alive. As soon as one nods off, he has to be saved from certain death: “Morning!”
    People come in and out. Each one expects me to be understanding. But that should go both ways. That’s how the world works.
    The nurse comes back in with a little chrome trash can and sets it on the nightstand. She pushes down on the plastic pedal with her hand and the top flies open. I put in the used bandages from between my ass cheeks. The way Margarete uses the pedal is typical of a well-kept woman. She pays close attention to her nails. She touches everything only with her fingertips. Odd phenomenon. Sure, if your nails have just been painted, you’re careful not to touch things until they dry. But some women act the same way even when their nails are dry. It makes them look squeamish. As if they’re disgusted by everything around them.
    “Thanks a lot. When it comes to hygiene, I’m quite particular,” I say with a broad smile.
    She nods knowingly—though she doesn’t know a thing. She thinks I want to keep things neat here, that the smellbothers me, or that I’m ashamed of the bandages I magically pull out of my behind. In reality, what I’m quite particular about when it comes to hygiene is that I don’t give a shit about it, and I despise germaphobes like Margarete.
    What’s up with me? Why am I so worked up about her? She’s hasn’t done anything to me.
    I’m putting one over on her with my trash can request, not the other way around. When I instantly despise someone for no comprehensible reason, when I want to punch them or at the very least insult them in the harshest terms, it usually means my period is on the way. Just to top it all off.
    Margarete says, “Have fun with your trash can.”
    Yeah. Thanks a lot. You’re a barrel of laughs.

I’ve already lost plenty of blood down there. And I’ve already got plenty to do to take care of my wounded ass without having to worry about preventing the flow of blood from my period, too. I’m fine with my actual period once the irritability right before it dissipates. Often I’m horny when I’m bleeding.
    One of the first dirty sayings I ever heard, when I was very young, was at a party my parents threw, and I had to ask around a lot before I understood it: It’s okay to swim in the red river as long as you don’t drink the water.
    It used to be considered disgusting for a man to fuck a woman who was bleeding. But those days are long gone. When I fuck a boy who likes it when I’m bleeding, we leave behind a huge, blood-splattered mess in the bed.
    When I have any control over the particulars, I try to get fresh, white sheets to use. And I change positions and move around the bed as much as possible so there’s blood all over the place.
    When we’re fucking I like to be sitting or squatting so