Life

*The man in the story represents an eating disorder

And so he held me tight in his arms, singing the song I told him was mine. The song I sang at happy times, though this was always to myself…every time. And I loved him for it. Not that I had not loved him before. But when he whispered the song into my ear I smiled, for the first time in a very long time. I could feel his breathe in my ear, sense his eyes on my neck, and though I knew I should have been feeling more precautious I had never felt more alive. His silver words twisted through my ear and planted themselves to the very depths of my mind, blooming into what was to become black roses. Though they seemed so beautiful at the time. So uniquely symmetrical in their perfection.

For some reason the words put me at ease when sung by his lips, perhaps because they lay so close to the lips of my own. Either which way I stumbled, if only for a moment. Let all the thoughts drop from my head so that there was only the black roses. And I watched them grow a little more every day, while all the while he held me, singing the song that made the flowers grow.

Then one day I realized I had to leave, though the mans presence was alluring. And so with one last kiss I let go of his arms – stepped away. But his grip became stronger. I looked at him with curious eyes as to why I was not permitted to leave. I assured him this was not for forever. I simply missed my family and friends, though my stay was of course pleasant. And so I stepped forward again. Again his grip tightened, with a steadying grip. And all the while I became weaker.

I became frantic, my rage slowly increasing until my arms were flailing uncontrollably. I tried several maneuvers to loosen the tightening grip but no matter how hard I tried, no matter how powerful my will, I failed – every time. His grip became so tight that his nails began to dig into my hips. I looked at him in horror as tears dripped from my eyes. He smiled. He began to whisper the song again but I looked away, ashamed and disappointed. He loosened his grip, slightly, ever so slightly. But through clouded tears I would never even be capable to notice.

He stopped his chant, listening to me whimper. And though I no longer felt love for the man I knew I needed him. I would always need him. And through this realization I cried more, only to feed into his scowling grin. I stood there with him for what seemed to be a lifetime, crying all the while, until my tears finally subsided. Though the sun was still nowhere to be seen. And that’s when the man whispered ‘…are you finished?’

And after many minutes of self reflection I simply nodded in return. I sensed no emotion from my stranger, only silence. He brushed my hair away from my sweaty neck with such a gentleness normally not associated with a man. Then all was quite again. I became numb to his touch, and days turned to nights with no clear distinction. Just one unidentified blur.

When he took the knife to my cheek I was awake. Staring at the sky I stood still wrapped in his arms pretending I was dead. I didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. Just felt the cool dagger dig its way deeper and deeper into my skin. I watched the blood hit the cement floor with no emotion. Was it cement? Maybe tile, concrete perhaps. I didn’t know anymore. Didn’t care. All that remained of my concentration was left focusing on the perfect drops of red, oozing slowly from my skin.

He worked his way slowly across my face, making long lines in every direction, each one deeper then the next. I knew I was running short on blood when he reached the other side of my face. And for the first time in a long time I wept again. I tried to look into his eyes but he held my face staring straight ahead, looking into my puddle of blood.

I knew that my blood was running dangerously low. And I knew he was not going to stop his butchery. He was working his way lower now, and I knew his next target would be my neck. And sure enough he began to hack lower, harder and harder each time.

I thought of my options. Maybe I could still run away, reason with him, use my strength to fend him off. I knew all these were not possibilities. Not anymore. I had waited too long. It was too late. And then I thought, why should I run? Why should I hide? This man is offering my death and at the moment that seems to be the most beautiful thing in the world. Just wait a few minutes, just a few minutes. It’ll al be over. And then you can be in peace.

So he continued, the slashings adding ever more to my thickening puddle of blood. But with one last feeble look at the sky I saw the sun. I had not seen him in a very long time. I forgot it could be so beautiful. I didn’t want to die. Not now. Not here. Not in his arms with his fingers on the trigger. And so I screamed. I screamed with such an intensity that the birds I had not seen in what felt like a lifetime fled from their havenous trees and my hollers echoed through what I discovered to be the rest of the world. I had forgotten how sweet the air tasted, how blue the sky could be. The man who held me tightly in his arms froze, and this time, I could feel him smiling.

He turned me around and gazed at my butchered face, gleaming at his handiwork. Never before had he achieved such a feat. Blood still dripped from what would forever be scars, hatched across my face in modern beauty. And so still smiling he said to me in what was not screams, and yet not whispers – “Don’t worry dear don’t worry.” My eyebrows rose in what was confusion. “You won’t ever die…and never will I….never”

Add a comment November 11, 2008
Tags: anorexia, binge, bulimia, cuts, death, depression, dreaming, eating disorder, future, knife, man, pain, sad, sadness, singing, The Past, wishfullness