Parity

Parity

Pain that is endured
Bruises more the soul than the
Pain that is embraced

You don't know me. You don't care who I am.
I went for a bath last night and took two cups of cold water, a
minidisc player, a safety razor, a sewing needle and a razor blade. I
pressed play on the stereo, the grand strains of Mussorgsky's
"Promenade" from Pictures in a Gallery sounded quiet and tinny from the
dangling earpieces.

I've just run my hand over my arm. Closing my eyes for a second, I'm
back in the bath.
The bath water laps at the sides as I lower myself into it, so hot it
turns the skin red and sends shivers over the exposed parts of my body.
I wipe some sweat from my freshly shaved head, resting my face against
the cool tiles beaded with condensation. I stick the pin into my chest
so I can find it easily later, then carefully unwrap the razor blade
from its paper case.

I snap the razor in half, to give me two separate blades, then I snap
those in half. I plop one piece of blade into one of the glasses of
water. It sits on the surface, floating defiantly until I tap it
gently, bursting the meniscus of the water. It flutters to the bottom
of the glass like a steel leaf in a breeze. I drop the safety razor in
the other glass and nestle the earphones gently in my ears; the music
becomes my world.

It is important to remain calm during this time, so I swallow my
excitement. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths before shaving
my arms thoroughly. I don't really have to - the downy blonde hair
doesn't grow there much anymore, but I like to be sure. The cold
almost-fear replaces the shaking excitement.

There is the brief pause between tracks on the disk. I exhale. The
music starts and I force myself to slowly retrieve the blade. The calm
takes hold and?

The blade bites, bursting through the skin. My left arm flushes with
pain and I look at the wound. Two inches long, about two millimetres
deep. I can see the white thickness of the skin. The blood wells up and
fills the tiny trench.

The pain has past and a spent, tender feeling spreads slowly up my arm,
across my chest, makes my ear tingle. I rub my ear with my shoulder. I
try to hold back the moan that always comes with the first cut. I
fail.

The blood trickles, flows, drips into the water, beautiful red clouds
rise to the surface. I feel good all over, my skin hypersensitive,
burned by the water, cleansed by the razor. The first cut is always far
too close to an orgasm to be entirely comfortable, yet I've never even
felt the slightest flicker from my groin when I've done it to
myself.

My head stutters down the wall as I slide lower in the bath. I imagine
that I'd never cut myself. I imagine that I never had to. I like these
moments, my memories, my imagination; my mind seems stronger, more
vivid.

I sigh as I imagine lying down behind her, slipping my arm under her
head to use as a pillow. She squirms backward to lie against me. I kiss
her neck and she hugs my arm. I rest my other arm along her body. I
close my eyes. I slash my arm another seven times.

Involuntary tears sting my eyes as I try to blot out any thoughts of
contentment. It'll never happen. I must train my body to tell my mind
not to think. Like a failed aversion therapy. Every time I think of
her, I've got to do this because?

Because I have to. It has never worked before, and it won't work this
time - I keep telling myself. Before this "her" it was another, and
before that - another and another. Not even that though, for everything
that happens, I do this - and enjoy it. All it does is wipe the tiny
fantasies of happiness from mind for a while.

The fresh cuts are not quite as deep as the first, so the rush isn't as
great. I swap hands, holding the razor in my bloodied left hand. In the
afterglow of the secondary wounds I imagine telling her how I
feel.

She tells me about this guy she really likes, but this time she
actually notices that I can't make eye contact as I try to act pleased.
She asks what's wrong, then sees the half-hidden hurt in my eyes.

>What's up?

>I'm in love with you.

>What?

>I love you.

She laughs. Sometimes it's a mocking laugh sometimes it's pity. The
words are always the same, just said a different way.

>You don't *seriously* think I could ever?

This time I try to change it, but I can't. It's always the same, just
said a different way.

>You don't seriously think I could *ever*?

My eyes open to a new criss-cross pattern on my right arm. Shit. An
actual sob escapes me. None of the wounds are too deep, but I think I'm
pushing myself too hard mentally here. I don't remember the actual
cutting. It's time for something else now.

I pop the needle out of my chest and wonder what to write. Cutting with
a blade is easy - using a pin hurts like hell. It tears and rips the
flesh, while the blade slices. You need focus when using a needle - it
helps to have a theme. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's just a habit that's
formed over the years.

Cutting with a needle for me is about self-alteration. To actually
finish the word or image you have chosen takes concentration - extreme
concentration, depending on how deep you cut, so you concentrate on the
image. Having half a word cut into your arm also looks really stupid,
so you tend to bite through the pain to finish it.

I tap my arm with the needle a few times, the tiny jabs feeling light
and happy beside the lumbering open cuts, like Morse code. An idea
strikes me.

I remember my Higher Computing from years back. The ones and zeros of
binary. At the end of each byte, there is a parity bit that confirms
that byte's relation to the next byte. It would be great if we had
built in parity bits, thoughts and feelings broken into machine code.
Instead of the random, lonely searching. To be more like a machine. A
machine wouldn't have to hurt itself for release. A machine wouldn't
need release. That doesn't stop people treating you like one. You are
used by some in one capacity and by others in a different way.

Just a friend.

Just an employee.

Just an asshole.

Just another fucking statistic.

One person's thoughts, experience, emotions and complexity compressed
into a single sentence. Dehumanised in a single whim. You're a
peripheral to other people's lives. There when required. Despite that,
you love them. You love them all. They're peripherals to you. There
when required. Except the few. The few where you have parity.
It's on my arm now. The flesh is puckered and swollen and tender. It's
neat, the block capitals a centimetre tall. I'm pleased that I've
caught the curve of the "P" without resorting to using two straight
lines to emulate it. That part hurts the most.

I'm dizzy now, a cross between panic and pure joy. My head feels so
light? I think about cleaning myself up and going to bed, but part of
me wants to push on.

I remember standing in the kitchen with her once, washing dishes. The
window was open and she was cooking something. A gust of wind blew her
hair about her face and she laughed, her nose wrinkled the way it does
when she really smiles?

In my head, she sees me looking. She touches my shoulder. She puts her
head on my chest.

No. No! NO! Three troughs of burning agony are carved in my
chest.

I buck out of the water, almost regretting the wounds, but glad I got
such a response from them. My gums feel raw and I can taste my throat,
the way it feels when you run too much. I slow my breathing. I steer
clear of the chest usually - it really hurts, so does the stomach, plus
they usually get infected, even when you use disinfectant wipes or
antiseptic spray. I lather up a bar of soap and start rubbing it into
the wound - it doesn't sting, it just oxidises the blood, turning it an
unsettling deep - almost black - brown.

My chest only has three other scars on it - beside these new ones. I
have the symbol I use when I need some closure to an event - the
Phoenix, coming through the event stronger. The other symbol is the
Bull, for when I need to physically overcome something.

The third mark is a simple cut, but the most important on my body.
There was a time when I hid all this from everyone. An almost guilty
secret.

No one would get it. Everyone would think I was sick. Until I met
Karen. How it happened isn't important, but what is, is the fact that
this girl was like a psychic mirror. We were even dressed the same -
black combat trousers, black shirts. The first hour was amazing.
Chatting, laughing - the way I've seen normal people do. I felt like a
liar, happy to pretend, but aware of the black cloud looming in my
head.

Her hazelnut eyes glinted as she asked if I knew how to use a knife. I
flipped a dinner knife into the air, caught it on the back of my hand.
I spun it into the air and caught it. She smiled and grabbed two
plastic buffet knives. She tossed one to me, then got to her feet,
still smirking as she tied back her untidy red hair. I couldn't help
but smile. The moment I stood, she lunged playfully and I knocked the
blow aside, dropping into a wide crouching stance - left arm guarding
my face and knife arm.

She danced forward, knife high. I scissored her arm between my forearms
and spun, catching her above the knee with my heel. She fell, and I
pushed forward to support her head. I still had her arm locked, so we
ended up stumbling to the ground in a heap. I rolled to my feet as she
lay there. I gave her my hand and pulled her to her feet - her sleeve
rode up her arm and I saw the scars. I felt shock and it must have
shown. My heart was racing, my mouth dry, I felt pale and cold.
She saw my expression as she gained her feet. She indignantly snapped
her sleeve down and looked up at me, an uncertain look on her face. She
bit her uncoloured lip.

>Forget you saw that?

>I can't.

She looked away, rubbing her arm through the shirt. I rolled up my
sleeve, terrified.

>Karen.

>What?

>Look at me.

I couldn't tear my eyes from the blue flecks in her eyes as she looked
up at me through her fringe. She held my gaze before noticing my arm.
She took it softly and gently brushed her finger down my most prominent
scar. She kissed it. Then hugged me.

We found a quiet corner where we sat intensely examining each other's
arms. For both of us, it was the first time we had met another
self-cutter. Hers were shallow, neat rows on the underside of her arm.
I could make out the word "Angel". Fascinated, I traced the letters - I
had never written anything on myself before.

She wondered at the brutal, eclectic slashes on the tops of my arms. It
was the first time either of us had been asked why we did it. Neither
of us had an answer, but we shared as much as we could in the short
time we had.

I was called. My taxi would be there in fifteen minutes. I had to leave
with friends. She looked at me sadly, and then I heard a pop. She
reached down and picked up a shard of the glass she had just broken.
She looked down shyly, then scratched her phone number into my
arm.

>Phone me.

I rolled down my sleeve to stop the blood dripping on the carpet. She
held out another shard.

>Do me.

For the first time ever, I used the symbol I use to represent myself -
a diamond with four slits at the top, to symbolise a paw print. Gently
as I could, I carved it onto her wrist. Her eyes were closed the whole
time. She sighed every time I burst the skin. She slid over and sat on
my knee, a hand sliding into my shirt. She stared into my eyes.

>Don't forget me.

>I?

The glass bit deep into my chest. It slipped through the flesh easily.
She opened my shirt enough to kiss the flowing wound, then buttoned it
back up. She wiped the blood from her mouth.

>You'll have to get that seen to.

I nodded, speechless with absolute desire. She noticed my erection and
laughed. I touched her face as she rubbed herself against my leg. I
stroked the soft skin of the back of her neck as she leaned forward to
kiss me. We both had our eyes open.

Then I was in the taxi. We only kissed once, but it was the kind of
kiss where your face goes numb and you wander around grinning for an
hour afterwards. I could barely breathe when I left, and we never even
said goodbye. She slipped the piece of glass she used on me into her
breast pocket and patted my cheek. None of my friends noticed the
blood, but they all noticed the dazed look.

>Nice night?

I just nodded. I spent the rest of the night touching my new wound,
unable to sleep. I often think how this would be a brilliant start to a
story...

I called her twice. We spoke at length. She lives 800 miles away. I
can't move on.
It was the end of our story.

I think of what happened that night. Our parity. What we had. I think
we showed each other that there is no shame in what we do. I think of
how happy she made me feel and I cry. I cry and make ten lateral
slashes on my right leg. I cut myself and erase the memory of her
touch.

The Great Gates of Kiev begins. Drained, weak and happy I shower off
the blood and apply antiseptic spray.

God, that was last night. The memories brought on by the pain are
vivid. I still have Karen's number in my phone, and I still think about
her. I mainly think about whether or not she thinks of me. Probably
not. She was beautiful and I am not. We may have had a lot in common,
but we didn't have that. It's been over a year since I talked to her -
I imagine her with some other guy who makes her happy enough to not
want to cut herself.

I don't feel any jealousy at this, because that's something I could
never do for her.
I still use the symbol I created for her; an ideogram of swept angel
wings with a halo in the centre. I look at her number. I just have to
press the select button on my phone. Just ask how she is. Just tell her
that I think about her. Just?

I delete the number.

I rub the shard of glass I used to cut myself onto her arm before
tossing it into the bin.

She's out of my life forever.

I've set myself another unattainable goal now.