Peroxide (Peterick)

fucking a cactus would be a better alternative than this

Everything was going fine — or at least as fine as things go for someone like me — until one point of pressure wrecked it all.

Pete and I were enjoying our time while my mother went out, relaxing by the singing flames and maneuvering board game pieces to advance our plans, and our actions were tender amidst a world of judgement, so I was prepared to cherish the moment, but I should never expect such things from myself.

I'm sure Pete didn't plan on contacting my arm — accidents happen; everyone knows that — but it still retained the same impact. Like people tell one another, an apology doesn't heal a broken leg.

To a normal person, someone touching your arm would be nothing momentous and would probably be brushed off with a brisk "oh, sorry" before they go on their merry little way and forget about it five minutes later.

But I am most definitely not a normal person, so here I am, crunched on the floor of the bathroom after excusing myself with the lie of needing to use the toilet, a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide quivering in my hand as it bleeds onto my arm, and I frankly couldn't care less, because this is what I've been doing for two years, and it feels as natural as swallowing a breath. Ceasing the action would be the more dangerous option, but it's taken a while to explain that to psychologists without them promptly interjecting to assign a cavalier diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The peroxide deposits an unquestionably hospitable aftertaste, and that's one thing that I need after months of neglect. It's presented itself as my one true friend, even going so far as to challenge the voice in my head, and I've acknowledged it to be accurate. Other people are wary about the subject, but they clearly haven't been living inside my mind for long enough to determine what I do and do not need for myself.

So with that mapped out, I observe intently as the clear substance dribbles out of its bottle, tap-dancing over my skin as it supplies parting gifts of its own body on its way to the next area. The image is so vibrant that it hoists a smile onto my chapped lips, if only for a moment, before it bustles away at the sight in the mirror procured when I stand up.

I'm the everlasting vampire figure that I witnessed the last time, but it's the vampire figure with auspicious foundation makeup amassed on my face. I look somehow happier, but all I desire right now is to wipe it away, strangle it in the drain of the sink to discount its existence, and I almost pound through the glass to trap it once the structure repairs itself, but I wouldn't want Pete to go search for me at his note of the noise.

I conclude it's better to focus on the peroxide — and what an interesting liquid it is. I take particular notice of its fluidity, how it flees from my arm, how it dries up the skin once deciding to stay, how it can go anywhere but has its destination in mind.

I wish I could do that — run away with the freedom to go back — but this is life, and it only evokes destruction.

~~~~~

I hadn't comprehended how much time I spent in the bathroom until a sharp knock at the door demands a bath of hydrogen peroxide beside me, a curse word rolling out of my lips, and a sudden state of hysteria.

Instead of the person entering, their melodic voice inquires, "Patrick? Are you doing okay in there?"

Don't say anything. Don't let him in. You're a psycho, yeah, but you can't let him know that, not if you don't want to be alone.

"Patrick, I'm coming in if you don't answer me."

Don't respond.

The creaking of the door fiddles with the lock system, and Pete's perturbed form steps through with a timid clutch on his wrist.