(no subject)
Here's a new drabble, a work in-progress. Edits and constructive criticism are appreciated.
Warnings: References to suicide
I move in and out of sleep like I'm feverish, butterfly flashes of consciousness. Each time my eyes open I see your face swimming in a sea of hospital white. My wrists throb when I'm awake, sometimes they itch, but I can't scratch them through the second skin of gauze, my nails catch in the cotton.
Whenever I swim to the surface I can pick out the sounds of your pencil scratching, along with the soft click/whir of the IV machine. They’re trying to reinflated my empty veins like they’re balloons, all I can tell is that it makes me needs to piss constantly. I tell you and you laugh, not because you want to, but because it’s what you do when someone wants to die. Later a nurse comes in and turns down my medication, they say I’m calm enough that I don’t need it anymore. The next time I wake up it feels like they’ve finally pulled the cotton out of my brain.
Your face isn’t there anymore; I’m too tired to lift my head, so all I can see is the worn fabric of your expensive jeans. Some part of my brain says your hands are in my hair at some point. A nurse, Sarah, tells me that I’m tired because though my veins are full again, it’s nothing but a thinned-down blood soup. The fancy word for it was anemia, because she was really nice she spent a long time explaining it even though I though the concept was simple; even though I was full, I was still empty inside.
This morning you came by again, and I could smell that someone brought flowers. I’m still too tired to lift my head off my shoulders, but I could tell you were there. When you’re in the room I can feel places that were empty before growing full, like my veins filling back up with red-blood cells and hemoglobin and platelets. They tell me the platelets will help me stop bleeding, the blood they give me off the shelf isn’t as good as my own. I wish my marrow was healthier, you told me if it wasn’t for my eyes and hair I would blend in with the sheets.
Sarah says I need to eat if I’m going to get better. How can I eat when every time I sleep I dream about blood? She says to at least eat the meat but it feels like I’m chewing my own flesh. Even with Sarah standing over me with her long brown hair, green scrubs, and wonderful breasts, I still puke all over my bed. It was thin and yellow, nothing but bile. I haven’t eaten in a long time, I’m not about to start now for strangers.
I agreed to eat some spinach if they give me pen and paper, dark leafy greens are full of iron, necessary for healthy blood. My stomach is still churning but I got pen, paper, and an A for effort. Now that I have them I don’t know what to do. The thick bandages on my wrists make it impossible to move, my wrists still itch sometimes too. I don’t like touching my own body anymore, my fingers are always cold.
You finally come back, I’m strong enough to see your face now, and it makes me happy to see you look as bitter as you always do. Your voice betrays you; the edges are worn off your words. The thought of you changing makes me feel sick; when I’m free I want things to be the way they used to be. When you leave it looks like you’re running instead of walking. Next to my bed, the lilies and irises are beginning to decay, their rot smells sweet. The petals are collapsing in on each other, curling into buds. Sarah takes them away with her when she checks on me, along with my untouched food. She clucks her tongue at the still full tray.
Warnings: References to suicide
I move in and out of sleep like I'm feverish, butterfly flashes of consciousness. Each time my eyes open I see your face swimming in a sea of hospital white. My wrists throb when I'm awake, sometimes they itch, but I can't scratch them through the second skin of gauze, my nails catch in the cotton.
Whenever I swim to the surface I can pick out the sounds of your pencil scratching, along with the soft click/whir of the IV machine. They’re trying to reinflated my empty veins like they’re balloons, all I can tell is that it makes me needs to piss constantly. I tell you and you laugh, not because you want to, but because it’s what you do when someone wants to die. Later a nurse comes in and turns down my medication, they say I’m calm enough that I don’t need it anymore. The next time I wake up it feels like they’ve finally pulled the cotton out of my brain.
Your face isn’t there anymore; I’m too tired to lift my head, so all I can see is the worn fabric of your expensive jeans. Some part of my brain says your hands are in my hair at some point. A nurse, Sarah, tells me that I’m tired because though my veins are full again, it’s nothing but a thinned-down blood soup. The fancy word for it was anemia, because she was really nice she spent a long time explaining it even though I though the concept was simple; even though I was full, I was still empty inside.
This morning you came by again, and I could smell that someone brought flowers. I’m still too tired to lift my head off my shoulders, but I could tell you were there. When you’re in the room I can feel places that were empty before growing full, like my veins filling back up with red-blood cells and hemoglobin and platelets. They tell me the platelets will help me stop bleeding, the blood they give me off the shelf isn’t as good as my own. I wish my marrow was healthier, you told me if it wasn’t for my eyes and hair I would blend in with the sheets.
Sarah says I need to eat if I’m going to get better. How can I eat when every time I sleep I dream about blood? She says to at least eat the meat but it feels like I’m chewing my own flesh. Even with Sarah standing over me with her long brown hair, green scrubs, and wonderful breasts, I still puke all over my bed. It was thin and yellow, nothing but bile. I haven’t eaten in a long time, I’m not about to start now for strangers.
I agreed to eat some spinach if they give me pen and paper, dark leafy greens are full of iron, necessary for healthy blood. My stomach is still churning but I got pen, paper, and an A for effort. Now that I have them I don’t know what to do. The thick bandages on my wrists make it impossible to move, my wrists still itch sometimes too. I don’t like touching my own body anymore, my fingers are always cold.
You finally come back, I’m strong enough to see your face now, and it makes me happy to see you look as bitter as you always do. Your voice betrays you; the edges are worn off your words. The thought of you changing makes me feel sick; when I’m free I want things to be the way they used to be. When you leave it looks like you’re running instead of walking. Next to my bed, the lilies and irises are beginning to decay, their rot smells sweet. The petals are collapsing in on each other, curling into buds. Sarah takes them away with her when she checks on me, along with my untouched food. She clucks her tongue at the still full tray.