A Bothering
There was clearly something bothering him. Staying home from college due to the state wide strike was a welcomed disruption in his monotonous life. But things did not go exactly as he planned it would. He had plans for the day but ended up reading and sleeping all day. When the sky went dark and birds stopped chirping, something crept over him just like how the streetlight outside crept into his room. What was he feeling? Loneliness? Anger? Pain? Guilt? Or was it another attack of depression? But it has been quite sometime since the last attack that he almost convinced himself that he didn’t have to suffer anymore. Well, as he sat on the tiled floor of his dingy bathroom with the shower running into his hair and down his flannel shirt and denim jeans, he was thinking. He was not crying but just thinking. He was concentrating on the huge weight he felt inside his chest that he thought would swallow him any moment. His clothes were drenched and could not absorb anymore water. The wet clothes made him shiver but he felt warmth from the clothes just as if someone was hugging him. Just as if he had another layer of skin to keep him warm. To protect him.
The past few weeks had been happy for him. Christmas was approaching. He got a job which put him out of misery from figuring out where to go after graduating. He started dating someone after two years. Things were happy for him. Although he was occupied and up and running with a lot of things, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the feeling of something forgotten. A fear of something undone. A constant thought of what is missing in his life. It was always almost as if he had the answer but could never see it. Just like hiding in plain sight. He knew it was there but didn’t know where to look or what he should be looking out for. With that memory of a forgotten thought or to better say it, the haunting thought of a forgotten worry, he smiled through the past few weeks. Tonight, he had to succumb to that fear. He had to succumb to that feeling of lost thought. It was crippling him of sorts.
He picked himself from the floor with great difficulty partly because of the weight of his clothes and partly because of the weight he felt inside pulling him down. Without being able to shed a tear he stepped out into his room and let a puddle form in front of the bathroom door from the water dripped down from his clothes before he reached for the towel or even took a step forward. He stripped right there and let the clothes fall on the floor. He walked over to his bed and spread out his towel on the mattress before he sat crossed legged over it. He dug his hand under the mattress and pulled out a knife he kept for self-defense. He bought it two months ago but tonight its blade will have his blood on it. The felt the cold blade pressed against his forearm. He slowly scratched his skin and observed white lines form on his skin. He licked his skin wet and watched the white lines vanish. He scratched his skin with the knife’s blade again but this time the hair on his hand came off as if he shaved them off. Fascinated he was, he shaved off a small patch of hair from his forearm with the 4.5 inch blade. It was clean now. Ready for incision. He has seen how the doctors shave off the area to be operated on and how they made incisions.
He was curious. But numb. He held the knife with its blade against his skin and pulled it vertically with just enough force to watch his skin tear apart and little spots of blood appear. Small bright red beads in a straight line. It wasn’t bleeding. It didn’t hurt him. He wiped the blade of his knife on his thigh and kept it aside. He wiped off the blood spots from the cut which looked like a scratch. He realized what he had done. He wondered if this counted as self-harm. He wondered if he needed to seek out help. He got up from the bed and dried his armpits and groin. He dried his hair with the towel quickly and pulled on a pair of shorts. He moved around the room cleaning and arranging with the quickness of covering up a crime. He picked up his wet clothes and threw it inside the bucket in the bathroom. He turned the fan’s regulator to full speed and switched off the light. He stood in the darkness watching the streetlight outside his bedroom window flood the room. He moved to his bed and laid down. He felt a quick sharp pain on his thigh and realized the knife had cut him. He slowly moved his hand towards the thigh and found the knife. In the dark, he wiped the blade clean and placed it back in its cover and pushed it under his mattress. He reached his hand towards the wound and felt it. He understood it was just a cut and nothing serious. He wiped the blood off his thigh and let it dry in its own. He rubbed his hands on his chest and stomach in an attempt to wipe off the blood from his hands. He adjusted his pillow and took a deep breath. He smelled his fingers and a strong stench of iron rushed inside his nose. At the same time, he felt the pain on his thigh and tears trickled down his temples. He felt a huge weight being lifted off his chest. He tried to feel the pain and smell the blood. He couldn’t control the tears anymore. He just let it flow. He let the pillow get wet with his tears. He just stared at the ceiling waiting to fall asleep and he eventually did. A dreamless calm deep sleep.
