Bleed

My mother said I have no patience. She would look at me disappointed because I wasn't like the child I used to be. Little me was patient, it seems. Well sure, if learning the piano by himself, relying on ouido, and just doing whatever works is what you call patience. I used to think I was special though. I actually thought I was smart because I was always in the ranks, I was pretty athletic too, and I love the arts. I thought I could do everything perfectly. And now I am – this. Whatever this is. A college graduate with nowhere to go and no goal to achieve. I still do love life. I do appreciate it. I just don't do enough of anything anymore. I've been numb and surviving.

I've been living alone for quite a while now. My parents died in an accident a couple of years back, it was graduation day, and they just never came. I don't really have other family members; they just seem like a blur to me. And ever since, I could only stare at the sky on my window picturing the future I've envisioned if I was who I used to be. I laugh. That woman, I mutter.

I remember her long red nails at the dinner table and the sharp disgusted look she gives when I refused to eat the last piece of broccoli on my plate. "William" she calmly said. I shifted in my chair and gulped down my food and ate the last piece with pain as if my organs were being dissected out of my body. She had always been unpredictable. You just don't know what you're going to get. She was young, with a soft yet bitter face, whose eyes spoke of sorrow and hatred, I could not have understood then. And as a child, I have accepted what I've been given, whatever it is. Sometimes, she comes home with chocolates and kisses, and it was a nice treat. Other times, she comes home with despair and the vigor to bury her nails on my neck, and it was a nice treat. My father would only watch. While the smoke from his cigarette fade, so did I. It was love, it seems.

The coffee table stood by my window. I put the vase I salvaged from our home and move it a little bit to the left. I peg in some fresh daisies I bought by the shop across the street. The vase seems a little big for the table. Well, it's fine as it is, but the lack of an armchair makes it more uncomfortable to look at.

I touch the glass window wishing to magically walk over it and into clouds I go just watching the earth in motion as I stand above it. I look at my trembling hands, scarred and purple, and let out a breath. I drink an Inderal lying by the table, I think I forgot to drink one this morning. What a shame. I walk by the window again and look outside as I sink into my thoughts, and on my red rug, I lie, exhausted and guilty.

Mireille. It was that woman's name. She had quite some friends I didn't bother remembering. It seemed unimportant then until they showed up one by one at the funeral. The endless repetition of her name silenced me, and the sympathies of people over such people made me feel as unheard as I was, that saying I didn't do it would ease the indifference I felt. I stopped myself. Another stupid thought, William. It wouldn't make sense.

At midnight, I awoke to the strong sound of the wind against my window, some branches crashing against it, I quiver. Lying here, I close my eyes thinking if I should just move out again. No. I can't. It just feels different, you'll get used to this place, I tell myself.

A voice whispers into my head. I’ll come and get you. I open my eyes and the rain slowly weeps onto the glass window. There are no stars in the sky and flashes of white light subtly appear like a morse code. It feels cold and quiet, except for the sound of a leaking faucet. I hear a faded laugh by the window. I'm dreaming, I think. I can't feel my hands, and the room feels different. It feels heavier. Yes?

I walk to the sink and I close it properly. My phone rings, it hurt a nerve in my head, then stops. I rub my ears. I should probably change the ringtone soon. It didn’t ring for a while, there was no name, and I don’t recognize the number. I stare at it sensing it would ring again. It didn't.

The rain began to fall a little harder and harsher. The shadow of the rain is dancing upon my now blood-red rug, it’s quite fascinating to have this vivid detail in a dream. I'm utterly delighted to experience this. Well, it is the only place to be. To dream. It’s my favorite thing. See, dreaming has its own time and its own absurd laws that make reality unreal. It’s an escape. Oh wow, the liberty!

I look at the glass window, and I see myself. Have I gotten thinner? It's the medicine perhaps. I seem to look like a pale patient from a ward with the nightwear I’m wearing. I sigh. I think of nothing. Somehow, slowly, I can no longer figure out my thoughts. My vision blurs a bit, I’m not sure if it’s my eyes or the rain got heavier. I stare at myself and I begin to feel uncomfortable. A bright flash revealed a body before me. A person? A familiar face looking back. A familiar feeling my body had memorized. A shadow I had known. Those red lips, that laughed at me and bitten me.

I'll come and get you.

I feel my blood rushing as if it were choking me, reaching for me. The floor seems to pull me under. Gravity feels heavier upon my shoulders and my body. I couldn't move. I suddenly feel claws scraping my neck and I sense my hands burn. The rumbling of the sky dominates the room as if it were tearing it down. I see it clearly. I see her clearly.

I'll come and get you.

The window broke. I managed to cut my palm open. My blood gushed out of my skin, and it's flowing onto my table and onto the floor. It didn't hurt a bit. It wasn't that deep, I think. The shattered glass fell on my rug as well as the vase, I stare at it for a while, unamused and unfeeling. The daisies are covered with my blood, and they seem to look better with it. I didn't do it. I thought one last time.