Short story - “The Silent Year”

Story Theme: Ink in the Veins

Prize winner at TRANSCON 2025 Golden Jubilee Conference, Delhi, organised by the Indian Society of Blood Transfusion & Immunohematology (ISBTI)

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The Silent Year

I am Blood.

Not just a fluid. A witness. A lifeline. A legacy.

Each time my human visited the blood centre, I danced with joy. I rushed through veins with pride, ready to flow into a waiting bag. I would feel the warmth of his heartbeat, the slight squeeze of the cuff, and then the soft pinch of the needle—our gateway to giving.

I loved donating.

Because I knew where I was going.

To a little girl with dengue, pale and fighting to smile.

To a mother after childbirth, gripping her newborn’s fingers.

To a boy hit by a car, clinging to life.

Each of them was mine—my child, my kin.

I was life, and I was love.

My human came regularly. Every three months, like clockwork. I knew the routine—the roll of the sleeves, the brief medical check, and then the red bag waiting to be filled.

But one day, something changed.

He sat in the donor chair, as usual. But the doctor paused, frowned, and asked,

"When did you get this tattoo?"

The human smiled faintly and replied,

"About a week ago."

The doctor shook his head gently.

"Sorry, you’ll have to wait a year to donate. It’s a safety rule."

A year? A whole year?

My pulse thudded. My rhythm broke.

I was stunned.

I turned, and there it was—Ink.

Sitting comfortably on the human’s arm, glowing with fresh lines and colors.

I boiled.

"What have you done?" I shouted.

"You’ve stopped me from giving! You’ve taken away my children! My purpose!"

Ink looked calm. Almost too calm.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," it said softly.

"I was brought here with love. The human chose me. Carved me in pain, line by line. I’m part of him now."

"You ruined everything," I growled.

"You could’ve waited. Why now? Why here?"

I sent white cells—my soldiers—to surround Ink, to push it out, to break it down.

But Ink stood firm.

"I’m not going anywhere," it whispered.

"I’m not your enemy."

We didn’t speak after that.

We lived in silence—me in the veins, Ink on the skin.

Weeks turned to months. No visits to the blood centre.

I grew dull. Heavy.

I missed the rush, the purpose, the quiet thank yous from unseen faces.

And then, exactly a year later, something stirred.

The human entered the blood centre again.

His steps slow, deliberate.

He lay down on the familiar couch and exhaled deeply.

His fingers brushed the tattoo.

And for the first time, I looked at it closely.

It wasn’t just lines and color.

It was a face.

The face of a young girl, smiling softly.

Tears welled in the human’s eyes and trickled down his cheek.

"His daughter," Ink said, voice barely a whisper.

"She passed away. Few years ago."

I froze.

All those times we donated—he was remembering her.

Living for her.

Saving others for her.

The tattoo wasn’t decoration.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was memory.

When the needle slipped into the vein again, I surged with joy.

The familiar warmth.

The rhythm.

The kiss of the bag.

I flowed freely, quietly.

And as I passed the tattoo, I felt it smile.

Blood and Ink.

We were both made of pain and purpose.

And now, we flowed together.

To save another daughter.

To carry another memory.

Because in the end, what are we—if not stories inked in blood?

Image courtesy: Wix

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Dr Arun V J

MBBS, MD Transfusion Medicine, MBA

An aspiring storyteller

vjarunvj@gmail.com