Remembering October
Why do people cry? What biological mechanism causes it? What is the physical connection between the release of pain, and the release of liquid? Does pain need a liquid medium on which to flow out of the body?
I want a liquid medium. Tears won't come, and even if they did they wouldn't give me what I need. I need what I did the night I scared myself, that night after which I decided that I absolutely had to get control because I could see where I was heading. I remember how shocked I was the next morning when I saw the job I'd done, how far I'd had to go for satisfaction, how much precision was required for that satisfaction, how many wounds, how much blood.
The tissue knife, oh, efficient, thin sharp blade, gleaming clean from the alcohol swab and eager to dance. The care and tension with which I drew the blade across my skin, lying on my bed, opening up those slight, shallow lines that I could barely see until slowly, slowly, they welled with tiny spots of blood that grew and joined one another and ran. I allotted myself the upper part of my left arm and promised myself I wouldn't cross any of the lines. I did my entire upper arm from elbow to shoulder until there wasn't room for one single line more. I wanted to start crossing. I wanted to start on the other arm. But I didn't, because I'd promised myself. Or maybe because the towel had soaked through to my sheet and mattress. Maybe because I was frightened by the stomach-churning thrill I got from the taste and smell of the blood. Maybe because I was too high to hold the blade steady anymore. So I lay still until the flow thickened, darkened, and stopped. Afterwards, I cleaned up as I always did, with rubbing alcohol, loving the burn, holding in the screams, taking in the good pain that blasted away the bad. Then I wrapped a fresh towel around my arm, lay back down on my bed and savoured the blissed-out feeling, warm and happy and calm, all the pain and tension released, my brain finally still and blessedly free of thought, my soul floating at peace ever so slightly above my drained body. I've never done heroin but I imagine that must be what it feels like.
I want that now. But I mustn't. I feel guilty for even writing this. Oh God I want my blade, so badly, so badly...
I want a liquid medium. Tears won't come, and even if they did they wouldn't give me what I need. I need what I did the night I scared myself, that night after which I decided that I absolutely had to get control because I could see where I was heading. I remember how shocked I was the next morning when I saw the job I'd done, how far I'd had to go for satisfaction, how much precision was required for that satisfaction, how many wounds, how much blood.
The tissue knife, oh, efficient, thin sharp blade, gleaming clean from the alcohol swab and eager to dance. The care and tension with which I drew the blade across my skin, lying on my bed, opening up those slight, shallow lines that I could barely see until slowly, slowly, they welled with tiny spots of blood that grew and joined one another and ran. I allotted myself the upper part of my left arm and promised myself I wouldn't cross any of the lines. I did my entire upper arm from elbow to shoulder until there wasn't room for one single line more. I wanted to start crossing. I wanted to start on the other arm. But I didn't, because I'd promised myself. Or maybe because the towel had soaked through to my sheet and mattress. Maybe because I was frightened by the stomach-churning thrill I got from the taste and smell of the blood. Maybe because I was too high to hold the blade steady anymore. So I lay still until the flow thickened, darkened, and stopped. Afterwards, I cleaned up as I always did, with rubbing alcohol, loving the burn, holding in the screams, taking in the good pain that blasted away the bad. Then I wrapped a fresh towel around my arm, lay back down on my bed and savoured the blissed-out feeling, warm and happy and calm, all the pain and tension released, my brain finally still and blessedly free of thought, my soul floating at peace ever so slightly above my drained body. I've never done heroin but I imagine that must be what it feels like.
I want that now. But I mustn't. I feel guilty for even writing this. Oh God I want my blade, so badly, so badly...