Three times a week, they make me lay down so the machine can take my blood. Everyone can see my blood traveling through the clear tubes that twist and turn through pulleys, travel in and out of hidden slots, and end in large vials, where my blood is no longer red; it’s a foamy pink, like bubble gum soda.

The machine takes my blood because I am guilty. I did something wrong and everyone wants to kill me. Instead of killing me, though, they make me lay down so the machine can take my blood.

I have to lay down for about five hours at a time. I worry that the machine is really stealing all of my blood from me. They tell me that the machine returns all of my blood to my body and just takes away the water and toxins, but I think the machine takes my blood, too. I always weigh a lot less after the machine is done; that can’t be all water. They must take a little bit of blood each time.

They won’t kill me immediately. They have to do it slowly. So they take a little bit of blood each time. Maybe it’s only a drop, maybe it’s a teaspoon, maybe it’s a cup. Maybe they’re cooking something and they need my blood to do it.

But I deserve this because I am guilty. I deserve to die a slow death.

I get really sleepy when I am attached to the machine. I have a really large vein on my arm. It’s the sign of guilt. The doctors put it there—they know I am guilty and they put it there so everyone can know that I did something wrong. The vein looks like a big, ugly slug. It’s like the big, ugly sin I have. I wear my sin of my sleeve.

The big, ugly slug buzzes. It’s really weird. If you put your hand on it, you can feel it buzz. I think that the vein buzzes because it is sending out a radio message to tell everyone that I am guilty. Maybe the doctors planted a vibrating computer chip in there when they put in the large vein. When I put my hand over it to block the radio waves, it feels weird, so I take my hand away. I worry that the people around me will kill me if they pick up the radio frequency. I am surprised that people don’t drive up to me in their cars and beat me.

I’ve tried to find my vein on the radio, but I can’t find it yet. The station is probably blocked in the four radios I own. The doctors, the government, and the radio manufacturers are all in it together.

The nurses put two needles into my large vein to attach me to the machine that takes all of my blood. The nurses tell me that I need to do this three times a week because my kidneys don’t work. My kidneys used to work, though. I don’t know why they don’t work anymore. My doctor doesn’t really know, either. At least he’s not telling me. Probably because he knows about my sin and knows I deserve punishment.

I think the machine puts medicine into my body while it takes my blood out. This must be why I get so sleepy; it’s the medicine that the machine is feeding me. There are so many tubes swirling in and out of that big machine; one of the vials must be putting sleep medicine in there. Maybe it’s the vial where my blood turns pink, like cotton candy. If I get sleepy each time I am attached to the machine, then when they finally take all of my blood away, I won’t notice. I will be sleeping and then I will be dead. Maybe I will look like a popped balloon because all of my blood will be in the machine and I will only have bones and skin.

Then they will feed my bones and skin to the dogs to finish my punishment. They dogs will eat my body and spit it out because it will taste like sin and guilt.

My mom tells me I have to let the machine take my blood because if I don’t, I will die. Sometimes I wonder if my mom is in with the doctors and government and the radio manufacturers. Maybe she’s trying to make me die faster. No one wants their child to be a guilty sinner. She doesn’t know about my sin, not unless her radio has picked up the buzzing from my large vein. We don’t talk about it. She just picks me up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and takes me to the clinic where all the blood sucking machines are.

I wonder what sins the other people committed. There are usually a few people at the clinic when I am there and the machines are taking their blood, too. They never talk to me. That’s because my sin is bigger than their sins and so I must die first. They know this, so they don’t talk to me. That’s part of my punishment, too.

Guilt is a lonely thing. And the machine that takes my blood can’t wash it away, like the blood of Jesus Christ, except he was perfect and I am sinner and I deserve to die.

(Read more hemodialysis, a procedure used in people with end-stage renal failure, here.)