More Like A Relapse
Sea of Red
I couldn’t feel it, but i sure could see it; the white turning red, and the red spilling onto the linoleum floor. The only thing I could feel was pressure. A deep deep pressure on my chest that harmed me somehow under my skin. I had to get it out of me. I was so tired of that pressure I’d been feeling for over a year now. So sick of it. Sick and tired.
I had to bleed it out, get it from under my skin, get it onto the floor so i could throw it away and never see or feel it ever again. Get it out.
But the red didn’t stop like it normally did. The red didn’t stop. From the bottom of my palm to the center of the forearm, it didn’t cease. It kept coming and coming, more and more, gushing and flowing and coming quickly, fast fast so fast. My knife was drowning in the flow. The blade was lost in my flesh and in the red. The red was all over my clothing. My pants legs, more than likely on my underwear and all, all over the floor of the bathroom.
No. Too much red. Too, too, too much. What had I hit, what happened, what what what what? My flesh that showed under the red looked like a canyon, a canal, a bird’s eye view of a river of red.
…Why was I so calm?
Maybe I wanted to just lay there and wait. I could do it, do it and not even care if the world found me the next morning, cold and still and covered in red, lying in the corner of the bathroom, sitting on the floor, next to a bloody knife. I wouldn’t care. No, not one bit. I loved a lot of things, but very little to live for. Very very little.
My chest still hurt. My heart? No, under my heart. Was it any certain organ that was actually hurting, or was it my mind thinking I was hurting? No, no, no, if I was hurting it wasn’t unreal and it couldn’t be sheer imagination. Hurt is hurt. Hurt was and still is hurt. And right now slicing open my arm hadn’t helped a bit… but it will in time.
Just a little bit more time.
Time.
***
“Jake!” she called, trying to find the house pet dog, “Jake! Come here, boy!”
The mother looked around the house. Behind furniture, in the basement, on the bedroom beds… nowhere to be found.
She climbed the stairs, trying her best to avoid the steps that creaked, to try and avoid waking up her son and daughter,
“Jake,” she stage-whispered, “there you are!”
The aged canine lifted his head slowly from his place to look at her with sad, watery eyes, lying in the floor right up next to a closed bathroom door. The portion of the dog’s jaw was stained red, and when he moved his head from the doorway, a red liquid began to seep from under the door out onto the hallway carpet.
The mother’s eyes grew wide and she dove for the bathroom doorknob and flung the door open.
The collapsed to her knees the brought up shaky hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and frozen at the sight of her daughter in a sea of red.
Jake trotted into the bathroom, washing his paws over with a mix of dried and gooey blood. His nails clicked over to the side of the corpse where they stopped. He looked at the face and licked it vainly in an attempt to bring back the life that once petted him and took him for walks.
When the face didn’t laugh at his warm tongue or curve into a slight smile, the dog laid down next to the body and started to lick up the blood.
I had to bleed it out, get it from under my skin, get it onto the floor so i could throw it away and never see or feel it ever again. Get it out.
But the red didn’t stop like it normally did. The red didn’t stop. From the bottom of my palm to the center of the forearm, it didn’t cease. It kept coming and coming, more and more, gushing and flowing and coming quickly, fast fast so fast. My knife was drowning in the flow. The blade was lost in my flesh and in the red. The red was all over my clothing. My pants legs, more than likely on my underwear and all, all over the floor of the bathroom.
No. Too much red. Too, too, too much. What had I hit, what happened, what what what what? My flesh that showed under the red looked like a canyon, a canal, a bird’s eye view of a river of red.
…Why was I so calm?
Maybe I wanted to just lay there and wait. I could do it, do it and not even care if the world found me the next morning, cold and still and covered in red, lying in the corner of the bathroom, sitting on the floor, next to a bloody knife. I wouldn’t care. No, not one bit. I loved a lot of things, but very little to live for. Very very little.
My chest still hurt. My heart? No, under my heart. Was it any certain organ that was actually hurting, or was it my mind thinking I was hurting? No, no, no, if I was hurting it wasn’t unreal and it couldn’t be sheer imagination. Hurt is hurt. Hurt was and still is hurt. And right now slicing open my arm hadn’t helped a bit… but it will in time.
Just a little bit more time.
Time.
***
“Jake!” she called, trying to find the house pet dog, “Jake! Come here, boy!”
The mother looked around the house. Behind furniture, in the basement, on the bedroom beds… nowhere to be found.
She climbed the stairs, trying her best to avoid the steps that creaked, to try and avoid waking up her son and daughter,
“Jake,” she stage-whispered, “there you are!”
The aged canine lifted his head slowly from his place to look at her with sad, watery eyes, lying in the floor right up next to a closed bathroom door. The portion of the dog’s jaw was stained red, and when he moved his head from the doorway, a red liquid began to seep from under the door out onto the hallway carpet.
The mother’s eyes grew wide and she dove for the bathroom doorknob and flung the door open.
The collapsed to her knees the brought up shaky hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and frozen at the sight of her daughter in a sea of red.
Jake trotted into the bathroom, washing his paws over with a mix of dried and gooey blood. His nails clicked over to the side of the corpse where they stopped. He looked at the face and licked it vainly in an attempt to bring back the life that once petted him and took him for walks.
When the face didn’t laugh at his warm tongue or curve into a slight smile, the dog laid down next to the body and started to lick up the blood.