The need to break or fuck something almost unbearable. I have all this pent-up… feelings and nowhere to project them. Shit, I forgot my meds today. Closing my eyes, I head into the kitchen to look for a drink, something strong.
9
Luna
My heart beat with a sharp edge as I look around the kitchen for something to slice my arm open with. Am I scared? Most definitely. But it has to come out and be destroyed. Opening a drawer, I find silverware and some other cooking tools but nothing sharp enough to cut into skin, so I shut it back up, the silverware clanking against each other. I turn and open a cabinet and find a knife block. That’s what I need. Pulling it down, I grab the smallest knife, thinking it would be the closest thing to a scalpel, like a surgeon would use. Pressing my fingertip to the point, I test its sharpness and it sticks into my fingertip. I hiss and pull it back. A spot of blood sits on the tip of my finger, I bring it to my mouth and suck on it. The taste of metallic filling my mouth.
I think this will work. Pulling my hoodie off so I don’t stain it with blood, I remember I have his shirt on and take it off too. the smell of clean laundry and tobacco wafting across my face when the soft fabric slips over my head. Now that my tops are off, a fresh terror rears up within me. I can do this. Taking the knife I place the blade right before the small bump in my skin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“One. Two—” I push in to my skin, a sharp burning sensation racing up my arm as it slices through my ivory skin like butter.
My mouth parts, a weird squeal vibrating up my throat as I slip the knife over the small bump before stopping. Blood slips down my arm, down my elbow and splatters on the floor. Oh shit! I place my arm over the sink and drop the knife into it. My whole arm is tingling with pain, feeling as if I doused it in gasoline and lit it on fire. But the job isn’t done yet. Using my fingers, I push into the small gash, my eyes filling with tears, and finger out the glass tube. Pulling it out, I hold it between my shaking fingers and look at it. The GPS that tells the monsters where I am.
Dropping it on the counter, I pull open the drawer with the silverware and tug out the meat cleaver. Using my uninjured arm, I slam it down onto the glass, it smashes into dust. It reminds me of a smashed candy cane. I hit again and again, the coil and chip smashing into practically nothing. Dropping the heavy hammer-like kitchen tool. Looking at my small wound, I’m surprised by how much it fucking hurts. Why is it that the smallest of cuts hurt and bleed the worst? Turning the faucet on, I run it under cold water, closing my eyes, my foot stomps on the floor. Teeth gnashing, I try to push through it. I start going through the drawers to find something to stop the bleeding. There’s Saran Wrap, batteries, magnets, and then I come across one with hand towels. Jerking one free from the pile, I wrap it around my arm and grab one end with my teeth to tie it tightly. The light blue fabric starts to shade the color of my blood, making it appear a purplish color, but it stops for the most part.
I slide to the floor, holding my rag on my arm. That was so stupid, but I had to do it. I had to.
My toes curl into the floor, the pain seeming to get worse rather than better. I remember when they put it in me. I was asleep, put under with some medication and woke with a few stitches in my arm. The process seemed a lot more simple than what I just did. I mutilated my arm, a scar will surely be left behind. I feel the urge to get up and clean my mess up before Romeo gets back, but I can’t. It hurts so much. I should have looked for something for the pain before I started, but I don’t remember it hurting so much when it was inserted, so I didn’t think about it.
Standing up, I slowly tug the drawer open with the towels and drop one to the floor. Using my feet, I swipe it back and forth to soak up the blood droplets, but little circles from it already drying won’t wipe up. Bending down, I pick it up and toss it in the sink.
I need to get my mind off the pain. Off the blood. Pushing away from the kitchen counter, I wander into the living room. There’s a TV but not a remote to be found. My eyes sweep the area one more time. The coffee table, the couch. I don’t see one. But I do see something on the wall, I can’t tell if it’s a fancy thermostat or a stereo. Stepping to it, there’s a ton of buttons and switches. I press what looks like the On button and feel a tickle on my palm. I squeeze my hand in on itself and feel cool wetness, glancing down it to find blood. The towel now soaked. Shit. I hold my arm above my hand, trying to focus on the… whatever this is. I press an arrow, and the screen lights up with little green words saying, “’Hey You’ by Pink Floyd.”
The walls rumble and music begins to play. Turning my back to the wall, I slide to my ass and lean my head against
