My Love Was My Decay
All That Was Kept Inside
He reached his house and slowly unlocked the door, taking the key out of the potted plant between the door and the bay window. The lock clicked and he swung it inward, calling to the depths of the empty house, “I’m home.”
Of course, no one answered and he shut the door behind him, moving like a zombie because he had no idea what to do or where to go. In the kitchen, unopened envelopes lay on the table with the letter opener next to them. His skin prickled at the sight of the letter opener, and he wrenched his gaze away, instead walking over to the stove and wondering if he could pick up the energy to make himself some dinner.
He couldn’t. Feeling suddenly heavy and leaden, he dragged himself into the bathroom and shut the door, even though no one else was home. He collapsed onto the floor and laid his hot cheek against the cold tile. He knew what his body wanted and he could not lie to himself – he wanted it, too. Just for a moment, to take away the pain of the memories that had flooded him at the park.
He stood up and slammed dizzily against the wall. The hunger, the deprivation, was driving him insane. His fingers trembled in anticipation and he felt a pull from the medicine cabinet. Ha. It was no medication he wanted, no. It was the thin instrument that lay hidden on the top shelf, against the wall and in an abandoned retainer case, so Paul wouldn’t get suspicious.
It was here he reached and gently took the box, making a clattering sound as the tool inside rattled against the red plastic. The case was her spare, the one he took because it had her name, her address, and her phone number on a thick white label. In it, he’d caught her laughter, her witty comments, and her best moments, and he’d shut the lid and sealed it tight – along with his secret.
Now, he closed the mirrored cabinet door and set the case on the marble counter, next to the sink. He felt jumpy, he was so anxious for it to happen. His fingers acted of their own accord – they popped open the top of the box, and there it lay; the thin, shiny, silver razor, one inch wide and as thick as a sheet of paper.
He removed the razor from the box and held it between his index finger and thumb. He stared down at it, remembering the last time he’d used it. He shrugged back the sleeve of his left arm, and there it was – the makings of his despair, the product of his anguish. Ash. All caps. The razor had been bloody, it had left stains on his shirts and blankets for a few days, his arm had felt like it was on fire. It stretched from the inside of his elbow to the greenish veins on the inside of his left wrist, in now-pinkish-white scar tissue, a shade darker than his skin color, most visible in the sunlight or after a shower.
He maneuvered the razor parallel to the H, and let it pressure slightly on his skin. Just touching. He closed his eyes and there was that one moment in time, where it was his decision to let it sink in, and bleed, and have an ultimate rush where the pains of the outside world meant nothing to the one in his arm; or pull it away and forget everything, to replace the razor in its box, to go back and drown in the distance she’d put between them.
He sunk the razor and felt it bite.
Oh, there was pain. But it was only for a moment – the second after, it was all warmth spreading throughout the area, and there was no razor, no arm, there was only the fuses of two live wires, sharing the electricity, and it bit deeper, his arm dropped lower, he grit his teeth as it broke past the barrier of pain. He felt it now, and his eyes fluttered open and he gradually eased out the razor.
It had cut a straight line, which was leaking blood. A thin, red line, which stretched about a hundredth of an inch as he moved his arms to tear off some toilet paper. He pressed it to the spot and it soaked up the blood. His eyes brimmed with tears, not only for the pain, but for the loss of Ashleigh, the only thing he’d ever loved. His heart ached, his body was sore. He threw the red-stained paper away.
Repositioned the razor at a right angle to the line.
And let it in again.
Of course, no one answered and he shut the door behind him, moving like a zombie because he had no idea what to do or where to go. In the kitchen, unopened envelopes lay on the table with the letter opener next to them. His skin prickled at the sight of the letter opener, and he wrenched his gaze away, instead walking over to the stove and wondering if he could pick up the energy to make himself some dinner.
He couldn’t. Feeling suddenly heavy and leaden, he dragged himself into the bathroom and shut the door, even though no one else was home. He collapsed onto the floor and laid his hot cheek against the cold tile. He knew what his body wanted and he could not lie to himself – he wanted it, too. Just for a moment, to take away the pain of the memories that had flooded him at the park.
He stood up and slammed dizzily against the wall. The hunger, the deprivation, was driving him insane. His fingers trembled in anticipation and he felt a pull from the medicine cabinet. Ha. It was no medication he wanted, no. It was the thin instrument that lay hidden on the top shelf, against the wall and in an abandoned retainer case, so Paul wouldn’t get suspicious.
It was here he reached and gently took the box, making a clattering sound as the tool inside rattled against the red plastic. The case was her spare, the one he took because it had her name, her address, and her phone number on a thick white label. In it, he’d caught her laughter, her witty comments, and her best moments, and he’d shut the lid and sealed it tight – along with his secret.
Now, he closed the mirrored cabinet door and set the case on the marble counter, next to the sink. He felt jumpy, he was so anxious for it to happen. His fingers acted of their own accord – they popped open the top of the box, and there it lay; the thin, shiny, silver razor, one inch wide and as thick as a sheet of paper.
He removed the razor from the box and held it between his index finger and thumb. He stared down at it, remembering the last time he’d used it. He shrugged back the sleeve of his left arm, and there it was – the makings of his despair, the product of his anguish. Ash. All caps. The razor had been bloody, it had left stains on his shirts and blankets for a few days, his arm had felt like it was on fire. It stretched from the inside of his elbow to the greenish veins on the inside of his left wrist, in now-pinkish-white scar tissue, a shade darker than his skin color, most visible in the sunlight or after a shower.
He maneuvered the razor parallel to the H, and let it pressure slightly on his skin. Just touching. He closed his eyes and there was that one moment in time, where it was his decision to let it sink in, and bleed, and have an ultimate rush where the pains of the outside world meant nothing to the one in his arm; or pull it away and forget everything, to replace the razor in its box, to go back and drown in the distance she’d put between them.
He sunk the razor and felt it bite.
Oh, there was pain. But it was only for a moment – the second after, it was all warmth spreading throughout the area, and there was no razor, no arm, there was only the fuses of two live wires, sharing the electricity, and it bit deeper, his arm dropped lower, he grit his teeth as it broke past the barrier of pain. He felt it now, and his eyes fluttered open and he gradually eased out the razor.
It had cut a straight line, which was leaking blood. A thin, red line, which stretched about a hundredth of an inch as he moved his arms to tear off some toilet paper. He pressed it to the spot and it soaked up the blood. His eyes brimmed with tears, not only for the pain, but for the loss of Ashleigh, the only thing he’d ever loved. His heart ached, his body was sore. He threw the red-stained paper away.
Repositioned the razor at a right angle to the line.
And let it in again.
♠ ♠ ♠
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