So give me all your poison
Come goats, a few marbles and a finger down.
Back in Mexico, there’s a saying when people have gone mad which goes something like “oh, she’s lost all of her goats” , which basically means “she’s lost her marbles” which is basically what I’ve done. Crushed between all encouraging and loving home-asylum environment Mikey and Frank constructed, and blurry from the lack of sleep, I had managed to become a human ticking bomb.
Nine days without sleep, eleven days without Sam. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Zero marbles left, all goats gone long ago.
So that morning while Frank and Mikey slept and before the sun crept up, I sat there completely aware I had lost it. I didn’t feel any pain because of Sam’s death and the thought and guilt corroded my insides, like carbon monoxide binding toxically into my hemoglobin, suffocating me from the inside, choking me slowly. Why wasn’t I in pain?
Geoff was. He couldn’t crawl out of bed. Frank and Mikey felt pain just by looking at me. I figured something had to give.
Something either had to jerk me up or put me to sleep. Since the later was impossible due to Frank’s and Mikey’s constant vigilance I picked the first. Deep inside I knew sleep wouldn’t free me from the guilt, it would just postpone it, the first option on the other hand…it was freedom.
It was easy enough since I was already cuckoo enough to do it. Reality was blurry, I was never awake or asleep. Nothing made sense or mattered. Nothing was real.
I set my fag down on the white porcelain edge of the sink.
Then my left pinky finger next to it.
Controlling the shaking was the hard part, duck tape did the trick.
It all went smoothly later.
Butcher knife up and down.
One swing,
one blow,
one hit.
A perfect clean cut. Muffled screaming into dishcloth, knife clashing into the floor.
Inky red blood dripping into the white porcelain, like snow and flesh. All my childhood dreams coming true in a most perverted and sick form but maybe they always were like that.
Maybe I had always been mad but I knew it for certain when I began to laugh hysterically curled up in the floor, blood splashing everywhere. Oxygen and overwhelming pain rushing into every cell of my being in great gasps of relief. I was here. My heart beating madly in chest. Alive. Awake.
I might have passed out a few minutes overwhelmed by the feeling. I didn’t care it was pain, as long as I felt something. When I managed to look up I found even more comical the fact my finger was still stuck to the edge of the sink. Don’t listen to the doctors, going mad is brilliant. It’s relief. It’s letting go. It’s a gasp for air when you’re drowning.
Nothing could ruin this. Not even him.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Next to my finger was Gerard looking down at me bewildered.
I grinned wide, he pucked into the sink when he saw the finger.
Nine days without sleep, eleven days without Sam. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Zero marbles left, all goats gone long ago.
So that morning while Frank and Mikey slept and before the sun crept up, I sat there completely aware I had lost it. I didn’t feel any pain because of Sam’s death and the thought and guilt corroded my insides, like carbon monoxide binding toxically into my hemoglobin, suffocating me from the inside, choking me slowly. Why wasn’t I in pain?
Geoff was. He couldn’t crawl out of bed. Frank and Mikey felt pain just by looking at me. I figured something had to give.
Something either had to jerk me up or put me to sleep. Since the later was impossible due to Frank’s and Mikey’s constant vigilance I picked the first. Deep inside I knew sleep wouldn’t free me from the guilt, it would just postpone it, the first option on the other hand…it was freedom.
It was easy enough since I was already cuckoo enough to do it. Reality was blurry, I was never awake or asleep. Nothing made sense or mattered. Nothing was real.
I set my fag down on the white porcelain edge of the sink.
Then my left pinky finger next to it.
Controlling the shaking was the hard part, duck tape did the trick.
It all went smoothly later.
Butcher knife up and down.
One swing,
one blow,
one hit.
A perfect clean cut. Muffled screaming into dishcloth, knife clashing into the floor.
Inky red blood dripping into the white porcelain, like snow and flesh. All my childhood dreams coming true in a most perverted and sick form but maybe they always were like that.
Maybe I had always been mad but I knew it for certain when I began to laugh hysterically curled up in the floor, blood splashing everywhere. Oxygen and overwhelming pain rushing into every cell of my being in great gasps of relief. I was here. My heart beating madly in chest. Alive. Awake.
I might have passed out a few minutes overwhelmed by the feeling. I didn’t care it was pain, as long as I felt something. When I managed to look up I found even more comical the fact my finger was still stuck to the edge of the sink. Don’t listen to the doctors, going mad is brilliant. It’s relief. It’s letting go. It’s a gasp for air when you’re drowning.
Nothing could ruin this. Not even him.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Next to my finger was Gerard looking down at me bewildered.
I grinned wide, he pucked into the sink when he saw the finger.