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- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:16pm
Thread Topic: _
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She sat on the green linoleum floor, her back resting against splintered wood panels in her parent’s kitchen. Her knees were brought up to her shoulders, hunched in a drawn up position. In one hand she held a butcher knife I had seen her parent’s use on the turkey at last year’s Thanksgiving, the other was opened wide, the flesh on her palm stretched taught.
I stayed, staring through the patio window in the rain, as she brought the serrated metal to her hand and drew it across. Beneath the grey edge bloomed a crystalline column of red. It froze there like I was looking at a picture, until her heart continued to pump out more blood and it dripped down her fingers onto the floor. It pooled up like a spilled cup of cherry Kool-Aid.
I continued to watch, she didn’t notice, or if she did, didn’t care. Finally, I made my way to the front door, fished under the mat and silently unlocked the door and slipped to my bedroom.
Cocooned in silky sheets, balled up around the waist. Stroke purple hills that roll across her arms, finger red and angry X’s that mutilate her palms. Hurt concealed inside a pillow, the only sign evaporated. A splintered bottle, an unfastened staple, a Penway pencil or ballpoint pen. Long-sleeves in the summer, mittens in spring, sprayed with stinging aerosol to make it sting…
Me, I, and Myself. Audience to every new mountain made, applaud to the crimson flow. Hurt, exclusion, depression, leaked away in a tiny red tear. Me, that’s who I help. I, am begging for someone to hear. Myself, is ebbing away in pain.
The fifteenth, twentieth, thirty-first? A different number, the same familiarity of what happens next. A habitual tingle runs across my scalp, adrenaline pumps through my veins as I remove the sharp of metal from the dining room table. It fell away during dinner, into my pocket. Now its nestled into my hand, commanding my fingers to my elbow. I twist my arm to see the white skin that barely gets tanned and go after the fold in my arm where upper arm meets lower. I put the scrap there and pull it down. A rush of relief pours over me, like a dam of repressed angry waters. Drip onto the comforter I rush to my usual red towel and dab it off the green sheets. Then I press it to the cut, and grab a hair-spray can and squirt at the fresh wound.
Pain sends me spiraling to the ceiling and the floor tilts away. It all swirls with colors, fades to white, grey, black…
I'm an audience to myself, I see it all, until its gone. My arms are purple X's and red lines. Until its gone, I'm gone, its dark. The show's over...
I need someone to hear. -
*whistles* Are you trying to say something?
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