Around The Corner (IP)

I open my eyes. Must have dozed off because it’s dark now. I look over to the window – the shutter won’t close properly anymore, not after the party, and I can see the stars have come out. My head feels fuzzy. What time is it? I lean over, press the little button on my alarm clock. Oh okay – eleven. I’ll get up, go to the loo, get a drink from the kitchen; my mouth’s so dry. As I stand up, Baudelaire falls onto the floor and I leave it there. I’ll pick it up later. I push my feet into the battered espadrilles lying by the bed. This villa is so full of shit it doesn’t pay to go barefoot. Still in my bikini from earlier, I wrap the sheet around myself. It’s not cold but all the same….

I stop. There’s a noise in Karen’s room. It’s unfamiliar - can’t make out what it is. How come though? She’s away for the weekend. Did it fall through? I wander down the hallway. I’ll say hello, find out what happened. Scratching at the mosquito bite on my leg, I turn the corner, push open the door, poke my head tentatively round.

It’s dark in there too, but not so dark that I can’t see two people on the bed. They both look up, and there isn’t time for the expression of puzzlement to vanish from their sweaty shiny faces, because it takes me only a few seconds to realise what’s happening – to see who it is, and as soon as I do, I turn and leave. No one says anything. What is there to say after all? I just want to escape. I want that picture of them – him, and her - to leave my head.
.

It won’t of course. Crying doesn’t work either. It’s a blade from my Stanley knife that does the trick. The one I use for making collages. Holding my breath in anticipation, I start. Never done this before; it’s easier than I thought it would be. Avoiding the blue vein on the underside of my wrist - I don’t want to kill myself - I’m not stupid. Quick, light slices at first, then deeper, as I begin to get the hang of it, rhythmically, almost as if I’m painting with the blade, covering the white inner parts, where the tan hasn’t reached. It’s surprisingly painless at first, then the stinging, tingling feeling begins – it’s good - and after a while, the sticky tightness of the blood as it begins to dry. There’s a lot of it. All the way up my arm, and then the other one. It’s very bright red – scarlet; then it gets darker and darker as it congeals – carmine almost. It’s not a cry for help. Not for other people. Not for him, or her. I just want to hurt myself.

When I’m finished, I lie on my bed smoking a cigarette, feeling the breeze from the open window. It makes the stinging sharper, and finally I feel numb, spent. I’ll think about all the rest in the morning.