Angry red letters. Dried blood.
"I AM A FAILURE"
My heart is shattered. Inside I fall to my knees. I pull my hair and tear my shirt. Outside my face is blank, my body still.
Those letters, stark against her ivory skin. I look at her face, my face a hundred years ago. Her pain was my pain. Her sadness, my own.
"You did that in class?" My voice comes from nowhere.
"Yes."
"What did you use?"
"My compass."
Silence. Tick. Silence. Tock. Silence.
"I'm not angry."
"Ok."
"But we need another plan."
"Ok."
More words fall from my mouth, staccato, dry. Words. Useless words. I walk away...from her, from the letters scratched into her arm, away from myself. Was it a few days ago? Months? Years? Yes. All of the above. How can I be angry when I understand? How can I be angry when my own skin stings fresh and new and red? When silver, white lines hide on my arms and legs. Oh, baby, my heart, my soul, how can I be angry?
I lie on the bed and close my eyes. The movie begins to play again. Me. Clawing my face, my arms. I can see the skin tearing, ripping, the blood dripping. Then the knife, silver bright as it slices into my arms, my torso, my legs. The gun. Dark and heavy, barrel in my mouth. My finger clenches and the back of my head explodes. Duct tape and plastic bag. Car driving off a bridge. Body falling from the sky. This same movie plays over and over again. Rewind and play. Rewind and play. Rewind and play.
STOP.
How do I make it stop? For me. For her. Who will save us from ourselves?
