Post by Absinthe on Jul 31, 2007 14:49:49 GMT -6
* Just penned this one. It came about from me noticing how vividly my veins stand out on the back of my hands and insides of my wrists. The've never seemed so noticeable before. I haven't been writing much lately. Every time I try, my pen seems to choke. Would be happy to hear what you think. *
The water beats down upon my back, sending tiny rivulets over my shoulders, wet trails making their way across my breasts and down to be lost among the curls at the apex of my thighs or meander their way across the curves of my legs. I can’t help but stare at my hands, bringing them up for closer inspection. I must be growing paler. Never before have my veins stood with such vivid clarity beneath my increasingly more translucent skin. They are like blue-green vines, spider-webbing their way across the back of my hands and along the center of my wrists and forearms. I imagine a phlebotomist joyfully inserting needles pristinely into each little wandering lifeline, extracting pieces of me bit by bit. But wait – phlebotomists go for arteries, don’t they? Veins aren’t well pressurized. They may collapse with the effort of giving away too much. I wonder if that would hurt. I imagine it like suffocation, my fingers curling in on themselves in an effort to stem the pain. Would they stay that way; my hands crippled in a closed position forever?
The showerhead squeals due to a build-up of lime, or rust, or whatever else may be hidden behind the chrome. The water has grown cold during my speculation, its icy pinpricks stabbing at raw flesh. I brace myself against the wall, palms flat, head silently bowed, reveling in the pleasure-pain of it. Eventually I crank the nozzle, leaving the faucet dripping pitifully. I don’t bother drying off, instead allowing water to run to the floor, leaving a puddle in my wake. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror above the sink – rosy cheeks, well-bitten lips cracked and dried, and potentially stunning aqua eyes clouded with something I can’t quite place. My tongue darts out to run along my lower lip. I taste the faint metallic of blood. I’ve been chewing my lip without even realizing it. I suppose it has become a habit over time.
I grasp the edge of the sink, trying to force tears to my eyes. Funny that when I give myself permission to sob freely, my eyes refuse to water and yet; when my father is yelling and I try everything in my power to remain impassive, the dam seems fit to break. I scrunch up my face, eyes nearly crossing and nose wrinkling almost comically. Still nothing. Sighing heavily, I slide to the floor, leaning back against the tub. The cool porcelain shocks my bare skin, but I pay it no mind.
I wish only to melt into my surroundings. I see myself becoming a part of the floor, walked on so frequently and hardly acknowledged for the work of holding everything up. We really do take advantages of the floor. Without it, without the ground, where would we be? That’s too much to think on at the moment. I imagine that melting into the woodwork would be a fairly painless way to go about disappearing.
I bring my head back against the edge of the tub – hard.
I can feel my brain rattle with the impact and it immediately begins to ache, shooting stabbing pains through to my eyes.
I bring my head back again.
The pain explodes, making me dizzy and numb and gloriously happy all at the same time. My skull connects with the porcelain a third time and everything, blissfully, goes black.
I do not think about what comes next or what came before. I don’t think about crying, or worry about the implications. I just surrender to the inky darkness. I am sure that when I am found, there will be a smile on my face. The darkness is warm, it embraces me like a long-lost lover and I revel in it. I don’t care what I’ve just done. This is the happiest I’ve felt in months.
The water beats down upon my back, sending tiny rivulets over my shoulders, wet trails making their way across my breasts and down to be lost among the curls at the apex of my thighs or meander their way across the curves of my legs. I can’t help but stare at my hands, bringing them up for closer inspection. I must be growing paler. Never before have my veins stood with such vivid clarity beneath my increasingly more translucent skin. They are like blue-green vines, spider-webbing their way across the back of my hands and along the center of my wrists and forearms. I imagine a phlebotomist joyfully inserting needles pristinely into each little wandering lifeline, extracting pieces of me bit by bit. But wait – phlebotomists go for arteries, don’t they? Veins aren’t well pressurized. They may collapse with the effort of giving away too much. I wonder if that would hurt. I imagine it like suffocation, my fingers curling in on themselves in an effort to stem the pain. Would they stay that way; my hands crippled in a closed position forever?
The showerhead squeals due to a build-up of lime, or rust, or whatever else may be hidden behind the chrome. The water has grown cold during my speculation, its icy pinpricks stabbing at raw flesh. I brace myself against the wall, palms flat, head silently bowed, reveling in the pleasure-pain of it. Eventually I crank the nozzle, leaving the faucet dripping pitifully. I don’t bother drying off, instead allowing water to run to the floor, leaving a puddle in my wake. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror above the sink – rosy cheeks, well-bitten lips cracked and dried, and potentially stunning aqua eyes clouded with something I can’t quite place. My tongue darts out to run along my lower lip. I taste the faint metallic of blood. I’ve been chewing my lip without even realizing it. I suppose it has become a habit over time.
I grasp the edge of the sink, trying to force tears to my eyes. Funny that when I give myself permission to sob freely, my eyes refuse to water and yet; when my father is yelling and I try everything in my power to remain impassive, the dam seems fit to break. I scrunch up my face, eyes nearly crossing and nose wrinkling almost comically. Still nothing. Sighing heavily, I slide to the floor, leaning back against the tub. The cool porcelain shocks my bare skin, but I pay it no mind.
I wish only to melt into my surroundings. I see myself becoming a part of the floor, walked on so frequently and hardly acknowledged for the work of holding everything up. We really do take advantages of the floor. Without it, without the ground, where would we be? That’s too much to think on at the moment. I imagine that melting into the woodwork would be a fairly painless way to go about disappearing.
I bring my head back against the edge of the tub – hard.
I can feel my brain rattle with the impact and it immediately begins to ache, shooting stabbing pains through to my eyes.
I bring my head back again.
The pain explodes, making me dizzy and numb and gloriously happy all at the same time. My skull connects with the porcelain a third time and everything, blissfully, goes black.
I do not think about what comes next or what came before. I don’t think about crying, or worry about the implications. I just surrender to the inky darkness. I am sure that when I am found, there will be a smile on my face. The darkness is warm, it embraces me like a long-lost lover and I revel in it. I don’t care what I’ve just done. This is the happiest I’ve felt in months.
