The Calling | The House of Voices #1

Twenty Eight - Smart

Smart

Parish:

Parish stared blankly at the message October had left for him on the mirror. He’d watched transfixed as, while he stood under the warm spray of water, the message slowly appeared on the glass as the steam in the room began to build.

Bandages + gauze in cabinet. It read. Used cotton balls in san bag. Roll, paste, put in bin.

Bemused, he stood there, running his hands through his wet hair, more playing with the suds in his locks than actually scrubbing. What on earth could the message possibly mean? The first part of it was easy to understand; there were bandages and gauze in the medicine cabinet above the sink, got it. But after that was when it got puzzling. Used cotton balls in san bag? What on God’s green earth was a san bag?

He quickly washed off all the soap on his body and shampoo in his hair, and stepped out of the shower, yanking the towel off the hook and wrapping it around his torso in one fluid movement. He tied the ends of the towel in a firm knot as he squinted thoughtfully at the mirror.

Acting on a whim, he opened up the medicine cabinet and pulled out the roll of adhesive bandages and a considerably small square of gauze. He scrutinized it carefully and decided that he could use it if he tore it into thin strips. Eight in total for each individual slash.

After grabbing the bag of cotton balls and the bottle of liquid Betadine from the bottom shelf, he made to close the door when he noticed a thin, white wrapper stuffed behind a half-empty bottle of mouthwash. Curious, he placed the Betadine and the bandages on the edge of the sink and reached for the wrapper.

When he pulled it out and discovered what it was, he almost cried out in mild disgust. Finally, October’s message made sense. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He mumbled under his breath, unable to stop the embarrassed smile that spread across his face.

She’s got a brain too, folks. He thought as he unceremoniously dropped the wrapper onto the edge of the wash basin and picked up the cotton and the Betadine.

He’d been cutting and treating his own cuts for years now, and was well accustomed to the burning sensation that the medicine caused; but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. Bracing himself, Parish pressed the soaked cotton ball onto the deepest gash on his left arm, willing himself not to cry out in pain. He repeated the process with the seven remaining cuts, vaguely wondering how Patty hadn’t noticed the wounds.

He’d used the clothes and towel’s she had provided him with to cover the wounds the best he could, and made conscious effort to angle his arms in such a way that she couldn’t see the inner length of his arm. But still, the wounds were fairly substantial, and anyone who was paying the slightest bit of attention would have noticed them right away. Luckily for him, Patty was probably too busy trying to minimize the amount of time she had to spend with him to notice.

A few minutes later, Parish had both cleaned and dressed all eight of his cuts and was only left with the difficult task of getting rid of the evidence. He stared warily at the wrapper, as if it would grow talons and attack him if he so much as looked at it the wrong way. He had absolutely no clue how girls did this, but October’s instructions had been easy enough to understand once he’d figured out what she’d been talking about. Cotton in the bag, roll, paste and dump. Piece of cake.

He picked up the soiled cotton balls and dropped them onto the wrapper. Looking like someone had shoved a lemon into his mouth, Parish rolled the wrapper and the cotton, and using the sticky tab on one end, pasted the roll shut. He didn’t miss the look of obvious relief in his reflection when he tossed the ball into the bin.