Status: In Progress
The Short Life of Calico Flynn
Just Breathe
"Ash! Where the hell have you been?!"
My mother's voice cut into my mind like a knife and instinctively I winced away from her. It was the middle of the night and she stood in her bathrobe in the kitchen, her eyes red and tired. I sniffed; I was shaking from the cold and the fading sickness in my body. Words formed behind my lips but my brain didn't seem to know how to make them come out. My knees trembled and the kitchen light was harsh, my pupils dark and dilated. It didn't matter what I said, I was breaking her heart either way. Mom stared at me for a few moments before rushing forward and gathering me in her arms; she was warm and soft and I sighed, too tired to cry anymore.
"Go to your room. We'll talk in the morning."
I nodded, my gaze cast downwards. I couldn't look at her. The guilt was already eating me alive. On weak limbs I made my way upstairs, peeling my jacket off and climbing into bed. The familiarity of everything comforted me and I soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep. At this point I'm sure you're wondering why I did all those things. I hate to disappoint, but it only got worse from here on out.The one question everyone always asked me was, "Why?". I never had an answer. Even now I can't begin to explain. It didn't matter what was happening, I always had a hole in my chest that I couldn't fill. It didn't matter how many drugs I did, how much alcohol I drank -- the hole was always there.
I woke up with a cloud covering my reasoning. I could hear my family downstairs, shifting and talking. I moved like a ghost to the bathroom down the hall. My heart beat slow and careful, my movements precise. The razor was cold in my hands but a crooked smile crept across my face. Pulling my shirt over my head I was left in my ripped jeans.
I didn't even wince.
My father was startled by a loud thump from upstairs. My parents exchanged hesitant glances, and both cautiously climbed the stairs. They called my name with worried voices. Then my father opened the bathroom door. My mother screamed, her knees hitting the floor. My father's face twisted, having already dialed 911. I was spread out, my arms and sides covered in thick cuts and slashes. Blood pooled on the floor, the air poisoned with the sickening perfume of copper. Blood was smeared across the counter and stained the porcelain sink, dripping down the cabinets to meet bloody hand-prints on the white floor.
I told you it only got worse.
My mother's voice cut into my mind like a knife and instinctively I winced away from her. It was the middle of the night and she stood in her bathrobe in the kitchen, her eyes red and tired. I sniffed; I was shaking from the cold and the fading sickness in my body. Words formed behind my lips but my brain didn't seem to know how to make them come out. My knees trembled and the kitchen light was harsh, my pupils dark and dilated. It didn't matter what I said, I was breaking her heart either way. Mom stared at me for a few moments before rushing forward and gathering me in her arms; she was warm and soft and I sighed, too tired to cry anymore.
"Go to your room. We'll talk in the morning."
I nodded, my gaze cast downwards. I couldn't look at her. The guilt was already eating me alive. On weak limbs I made my way upstairs, peeling my jacket off and climbing into bed. The familiarity of everything comforted me and I soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep. At this point I'm sure you're wondering why I did all those things. I hate to disappoint, but it only got worse from here on out.The one question everyone always asked me was, "Why?". I never had an answer. Even now I can't begin to explain. It didn't matter what was happening, I always had a hole in my chest that I couldn't fill. It didn't matter how many drugs I did, how much alcohol I drank -- the hole was always there.
I woke up with a cloud covering my reasoning. I could hear my family downstairs, shifting and talking. I moved like a ghost to the bathroom down the hall. My heart beat slow and careful, my movements precise. The razor was cold in my hands but a crooked smile crept across my face. Pulling my shirt over my head I was left in my ripped jeans.
I didn't even wince.
My father was startled by a loud thump from upstairs. My parents exchanged hesitant glances, and both cautiously climbed the stairs. They called my name with worried voices. Then my father opened the bathroom door. My mother screamed, her knees hitting the floor. My father's face twisted, having already dialed 911. I was spread out, my arms and sides covered in thick cuts and slashes. Blood pooled on the floor, the air poisoned with the sickening perfume of copper. Blood was smeared across the counter and stained the porcelain sink, dripping down the cabinets to meet bloody hand-prints on the white floor.
I told you it only got worse.