- trigger warning -
I couldn't feel. It wasn't something I did. Wasn't something I could do.
When I was 6 and fell out of the big oak tree in my backyard I didn't feel it.
When I was 8 and I fell off the top of jungle Jim at school I didn't feel it.
When I was 12 and my dad walked out, screaming and drunk, I didn't feel sad.
When I got pushed around at school, I didn't feel helpless.
Feeling wasn't something I did. Wasn't something I could do.
I remembered sitting on my bed, the sides tucked in tight and pillows in perfect parallel to the mattress, wondering what it felt like to cry. I saw my mum do that a lot. I saw it on tv a lot, too.
I wondered how it felt to laugh, that was something I never did, either. I watched my siblings laugh at the things said on tv. Their hands clutched their stomachs, water leaking from their eyes as if they were crying.
I didn't understand.
When I turned 16 I discovered my fascination with blood. The rusty metallic scent, the deep red colour, the way it splattered.
I was cutting carrots for my mother, my hands quick and steady as my mind drifted elsewhere. I remembered looking down when a tight sting erupted from my pointer finger, my eyebrows scrunching as I lifted it towards my face.
I watched in blank fascination as the blood bubbled to the surface before slowly making its way down my finger. The scent was strong, a drip falling down and splattering against the cool marble counter. That was the first time I felt something.
I felt fascinated.
After that encounter I had made myself a schedule. Every night at 10:15 sharp I granted myself the pleasure of drawing the delicious colour to the surface of my skin, watching it drip down my arm for several moments before cleaning it up and placing the knife back in the bottom of my drawer.
I remembered how one night as the clock struck 10 and I began my way upstairs to prepare, the doorbell rang and I paused in my steps. I was home by myself, like I usually was, so I turned around and slowly made my way back to the door.
I swung the door open, surprised blue eyes meeting my dull green ones. I nodded my head as he stuttered, wondering if he'd ever hurry up so I could go back to my plans.
"I-I'm new to the neighborhood and like, I-I don't know how to get back to m-my house and it's st-starting to rain. Can I come in?"
He had said. I hadn't really cared.
I let him in, stepping aside as his soaked figure stepped past me and into the warm house. I watched him with blank eyes as he shivered, cocking my head to the side.
"Do you want a towel?"
He accepted my offer and after that had made himself at home and I excused myself to my previous musings.
When I finished and cleaned up, a little less colour scattering my cheeks and an extra bounce in my step as I reentered the living room, sitting down in my chair and watching the stranger interact in my living room.
I just sat and stared, watching as he spoke but not listening. He spoke for hours, daylight breaking the windows before he bid goodbye and left.
+++++++++++++
The stranger returned many times after that, though I had learned his name was Troye, with an e, by that point.
He would just sit there in what was now his chair, and talk for hours about things I didn't care about. He'd show up around mid-day, accept the beverage offered from my overly cheery mother, sit in his chair and just talk.
