It’s My Story Now… (Part One)
To my way of thinking, this is my story now, so I can tell it in any way I choose, without considering the desires of others…I am tired of lying about it. Somehow that makes it all seem so…common. So vulgar. So cheap. To you, it may seem all of those things — and then some. But I no longer care, care only that the truth be known somewhere, by someone other than me. I refuse to keep the secret anymore…have to let it out if there is any hope for me to move on.
In the not too distant past I wrote for HIM; for my “audience of one”, as I so fancifully called him. I still write for an audience of one, but now the one for whom I write is ME.
The shards of glass were strewn all over the floor, some underneath her, others caught in her hair; still others had mysteriously made their way into the dining room. Robin lay in their midst, unconscious, a large triangle of glass still clutched tightly in her right hand. She couldn’t see the blood stain that was slowly growing larger under her left wrist; and had she seen it, she wouldn’t have cared, would most likely have scraped her wrist with the glass some more, in hope of making the stain even larger. Her right arm was bleeding, too, but only a little. She had taken the glass to her tattoo as well, imagining that she could scratch it out, along with the memory of the man for whom she had labeled herself: Michael. She moaned, her body curling in upon itself like a fetus in the womb, knees close to her chest. The change in position caused the glass in her hand to cut into her palm, which brought her painfully awake.
“What the hell?” she mumbled, looking around in confusion. She was surprised to see the glass in her hand. She shook her head groggily and dropped the glass to the carpet. She brought her right palm close to her face and tried to figure out why it hurt. As she did so a few drops of blood dripped onto her face: Plop! Plop! Plop!, they went, although the sound was much slower than it looks on paper here. She shrugged and let her hand drop down to the carpet, deciding she didn’t care why her hand hurt. Didn’t care why she could barely keep her eyes open, could barely think.
She passed out again – maybe for only a minute or two, who knows? When she opened her eyes again it was in response to screaming, incredibly loud, incredibly deep wailing. She tried to focus on the sound to determine its origin and was surprised to realize that not only was the sound IN her head it was coming OUT of her mouth as well. Slamming her palm across her mouth silenced the external sound to some degree, but the internal siren going off refused to be silenced.
“Dammit! Shut the fuck up, Robin. Just shut the fuck up,” she moaned, hands now over her ears, her head rolling from side to side on the floor. Glass bits poking into her cheeks made her still the movement of her head, and she tried to pull herself up into a sitting position. It wasn’t an easy task, but she did it.
Once she had managed it, she looked around the room stupidly, trying to recall what had happened, how she had ended up on the floor. About nine inches from her head lay a golden picture frame, broken into three or four pieces. Robin looked at it stupidly, still not remembering. She looked to her left and saw an odd looking piece of paper lying on the floor. Reaching for it slowly – honestly it felt like she was moving through water – she saw, for the first time, the blood seeping from her wrist.
“Huh! There’s quite a lot of blood here…I wonder….” her upper body began to sway a little, so she put her right hand down on the floor to steady herself. Pressing her hand onto the carpet was a mistake, and she snatched it back up off the floor quickly, shaking it to cool it, as if it had been burned. Drops of blood splattered around the room.
“Oopsie!” she giggled to herself. “I got more blood on the carpet now…” An old cartoon flashed incongruously through her mind, and she said out loud, “I’m a baaaaddd little boy!”
to be continued