Run Away With Me

I paced my room, my iPod on full blast on it's tiny speakers. Tessa was out, so I had the house to myself. I didn't want the whole house though, I just holed myself up in my room, occasionally going through to my en-suite to dry heave. I felt like I was going to throw up, but it didn't come.

I desperately wanted to escape reality. Escape from the three pieces of news I'd received in the past hour.

Frank is in a deep coma.

Frank is leaving as soon as he wakes up.

Frank may wake up with no memory.

At the thoughts, my stomach curled itself up and I raced for the bathroom, clutching the sink. But as I retched, nothing came out because I'd had nothing to eat. I trembled as I slid to the bathroom floor. My hand hit something smooth and crumpled. I grabbed it, and picked it up.

It was my old, empty, crumpled tampon packet. The packet I had used to store my scalpel. The scalpel I had used to do my self-harming. The self-harming which had gotten me therapy. The therapy which helped me meet Frank. The Frank which made me no longer need to cut. The need to cut which was bubbling up out of nowhere because I hadn't met with my therapist, I hadn't used my scalpel and Frank was in hospital, half-alive.

My mind was in spirals.

Without thinking, I walked downstairs, zombie-like, heading straight for the kitchen drawers. I opened the one nearest the over, and pulled out the small, sharp knife Tessa used for cutting vegetables. I pressed the blade to the palm of my hand, then slashed across, quickly, before I could think about what I was doing.

Blood oozed out of the gash and tainted the knife blade. I wiped it quickly on my jeans and placed it back in the drawer. I still felt like I was resembling a zombie, so I walked back upstairs, away from the world. I made sure I was cradling my hand carefully, not wanting to leave blood drips on the carpet.

When I got to my room, I sat down on my bed, my bleeding palm still facing upwards. I clenched and unclenched my fists, watching as blood oozed between the cracks of my tight fingers. When I opened it, a pool of blood had gathered in my hand. I had to admit, it looked pretty cool.

I watched with fascination as a tiny trickle of blood made it's own way across my hand. I didn't close my hand over to catch it. It ventured closer and closer to the side of my hand, then slipped downwards, quickly. A tiny bud formed at the end of it, swelling as more liquid pushed it’s way to the front. Then the bud separated from the rest, and plummeted down to the ground, where it was greedily absorbed by my bedroom carpet.

I watched the budding process splash it's way through a few times, until a blossoming stain was spreading through my carpet. I quickly clenched my fist again, almost as if I was trying to keep hold of my bodily fluids, seeping their way through that one shallow cut.

I placed an old sweater over the stain, deciding I would deal with it later. Tessa never nagged me to tidy up my room, and she definitely wouldn’t barge in when she knew I was upset. I wondered idly if all Mom’s were like that, or just surrogate ones.

I ran my hand under the cold tap in my bathroom, which stung a little at first, and then soothed me as the bleeding sped up, then slowed down to a halt. I pulled my hand away from the water and watched it for a moment. No blood tried to escape my body, so I turned the tap off and went back to pacing the room.

I glanced to my watch. 2 hours and 40 minutes and the only things to indicate any time had passed was the thin red line running down my palm and the jumper beside my bed.

I sat down on my bed, and put my head in my hands, wincing as my sliced palm made contact with my forehead. If Frank could see me now, he’d tell me I was being stupid, and I had to stop this. What would hurting myself do to make the situation better? Apart from land me a free bed right next door to Frank, that is. I immediately felt bad for hurting myself purposefully, when my best friend was trapped, in a world of pain probably, and would have given anything to be okay. I felt bad for hurting myself purposefully every time I'd done it, when so many people were suffering through none of their own fault all over the world.

If Frank had been there to here those thoughts, I know he would have been proud.