Eric stumbled into the bathroom, his bleeding leg dragging like dead weight behind him. The wound on his knee was deep, he knew, with all the denim it had soaked with maroon. His leg gave away just as he reached the bathtub, he collapsed in it.
The streak of red on the white marble made him mutter a curse under his breath if only at the shock of it, maybe not so much at the pain but more at the surprise. This was his blood and it made him sick. Added to it was the brutal acknowledgement that no one was coming was to save him. Not right now. Not like he wanted anyone to either.
If anyone saw this injury, there'd be questions. Lots of them. There'd be his mum and his brother, both of them scared out of their minds for him, while he'd struggle to explain in his dazed state. No one harmed me, at least no one you can file a case against.
A shuddering breath left him in a flutter as he stretched his arm upon his head to reach the towel kept on the shelves. The torso felt like being ripped, a muscle in the leg coiled. The world shook before his eyes, the bathroom wall and the closed toilet lid and the shower-head, it trembled, it keened in sympathy. Poor boy, you get hurt by your own dreams.
He got a grip of the towel, pulled. It caught on the corner of the shelf. Eric's pain made his movements jerky, he pulled harder and the shampoo bottles and hygiene materials kept on the shelf came close to toppling over. His eyes blacked out for a second as a bottle of his mother's expensive conditioner whacked him on the head.
The towel gave way under the strength of his pull. The skin on his knee was all caked up, it peeked out from under the tore cloth. Flattening the towel on his wound, he sat back, and pushed his head against the edge of the bathtub. A lot had happened in his dream. A whole life was lived in his dream.
But this time, waking up was different, worse, made the pain acutely real.
Strands of hair stuck messily to his forehead, his throat felt like sandpaper and he was dying for an unplagued sleep. This used to be his mum's spotless, top-notch bathroom and now the marble was red, the towel was red, his hands were red.
His eyes felt heavy. So, so tired.
"Can't sleep," he whispered to himself, ordering himself. "Can't. Don't."
It was a command.
There was no way he was going to fall asleep this time. He would stay awake for days if it came to that, he'd keep staring at that trail of red on the bathroom floor, he'd crawl to the phone to call the doctor, or to call his mum, he'd just never go back into that situation again from where he had come.
From where he had gotten this wound.
A knife, which had plunged into his knee. It was still near his bed, just where he had dropped it, stained with his blood.
Eric was slowly and slowly losing his mind, he knew. He could feel it, the point of no return, of knowing what you did was not right for yourself — and still not being able to bring yourself to change.
How insane it was... this knowledge, this would haunt him forever, every time the pain would flare up or calm down, through decades and dreadful winters, it'd never leave him alone, this knowledge —
— that he had been the wielder of that knife.
YOU ARE READING
What We Left Behind
FantasiaTW: Attempt of Suicide Eric tried to commit suicide. He was saved. Now he's living the aftermath. He's facing his family's disappointment and worry and seeing a psychiatrist whom he wants to like. But there's some law against that. Once you've trie...
