(Krista)Sweet Dreams are made of these…
It was bad dreams that led me to go to the club that night. I didn’t work there. Had never even applied to work there, no singing, not paid dancers, not really my scene. But I knew someone who worked there: Tom worked there.
And I just had to get out. You know the feeling, where if you stay in your own head any longer you’re going to kick and scream and rage until there’s nothing left? That's how I felt that night. I needed to get out, go someplace so loud and so crowded that I couldn’t remember who I was, where I’d been, or how much I wanted to cut, cut, cut away the hurt. I had a roommate this month, and it was nice to have enough money to afford more than white rice and ramen. Didn’t want to screw it up with another bloody bathtub. Someday I would, but not just yet, not tonight. I’d found out a couple years back that there were three things that made my chest stop wanting to explode: blood, sex, and singing. Since the first one was out, I was going to get as much of the other two as I could.
The bloody bathtub though…it brought me back, back to where I didn’t want to go, what I didn’t want to think about. Those dreams, why, why did I have to dream about that? Maybe it was because I hadn’t been able to have my razor induced release recently, maybe that was why this night I dreamed of my two first loves. Maybe that’s why this night, I dreamed of blood…
I knew this night, the night Chris left me, had to be remembered, had to be marked in a way that I could never forget. My favorite razor, the smooth unmarked flesh of the underside of my left thigh, a clean, white cotton towel, nothing but my best, my very best for my first true love, no matter what he deserved at least my very best. It’s an awkward thing, to gain real access to the underside of your thigh, anyone less flexible than I would have gone tumbling off the rim and into the bathtub. That’s why that area has remained clean; nothing and no one else had even been worth the effort. But, Chris, oh my poor, sweet Chris, after what I had done, he deserved anything I could give.
I rinse the blade first, wiping it carefully on the towel until I could see my reflection perfectly. ‘You did this’ it says to me ‘I know’ I reply ‘and it hurts. It hurts o much I can hardly breath.’ Then I smile. My reflection smiles. We both know how to fix the pain.
There is a line for every month Chris and I were together. From the first time he told me he loved me on November 17th, 1997, until today, March 8th, 2000. Twenty nine perfect red lines all in row running down my thigh. I smile calmly at them, watching the rivers flow, down, down, down, hitting the drain and going on, dripping over the clogs of hair, then off to…to wherever the drains went. The water treatment plant, probably. I giggle a little, as a rinse the razor off, at the thought of someone half way across town taking a shower tomorrow, rinsing themselves in the processed remains of my blood. Tiffany would think it was funny, she always like odd thoughts like that. I’ll have to think of a way to work it into a conversation without letting her known what I’d done….
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Four months, four whole months since Chris had left, since Tiffany had tried to take his place. I don’t suppose I’m in love with him anymore, not really, but still…it hurts. And so I’m back again. Same razor, same flesh, same blood stained towel. It’s going to scar, I know, but it’s okay. I want it to. I want to remember forever and ever….and god I need the pain in my chest to stop again, just for a little while longer.
15…16…17…18…at the 19th line I hear the bathroom door open and I curse myself before looking up. I knew, IKNEW, Tiffany would be getting off work early tonight. How could I lose track of the time? Why didn’t I just lock the door? Oh god, she’ll hate me now, she can’t stand people like this, people as weak as me… I look up, hands and legs stained red, searching her face. And I look, and I see, and I know. And it hurts. Oh, god it hurts. She doesn’t say anything, she simply turns and closes the door behind her.
I wipe the tears away and reach for the water faucet, rinsing off the blade. I pat it dry on the cotton towel until I can see my reflection. I smile. My reflection smiles. And I measure the minutes in small, deep slices on right inner thigh until I hear the front door. Slice, slice, SLAM. I watch the blood run down the drain. I watch as it all just run down the drain….
The blinding flash of hot neon lights snaps me out of the dream memories, and I’m back on the streets. The entrance to the club stands before me, the bouncer and lines mere afterthoughts to me. I force a smile as I slip in, digging nails deep enough into my palms to cut, to bleed. I can’t see it, but I feel it, and for the moment it’s enough. I weave through the grinding crowds towards the DJ, towards Tom. He’d only worked there for a few days, and the club wasn't known for allowing singers, but Tom would let me take the stage, no matter what Tom always gave me the stage. I’m not sure whether Tom actually liked the way I overshadowed his ‘amazing disc jockeying skills,’ but I am sure he liked the way the best tips happened when he was twirling the discs behind me. I climb up on the platform and close my eyes, and for one agonizing moment there is only me, the microphone, and the endless ache inside. Then the music starts, my eyes burst open, and there is only the wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy as the song tears from my throat. And in that moment, I know peace; for that song I am happy.