The Intrusion

Forty

[?]

The pain in my forearm is more than I expected, but I guess I didn't know what to expect. It aches like nothing I've ever felt, although maybe it is something similar to the pain from that rusty nail I took to the stomach at that old abandoned treehouse in the ravine so many years ago, but I can't really remember anything too clearly at this moment.

All I can think about right now is the pain, and how it took all the willpower I possess to cut my other hand after making that first incision, my mouth and lungs letting out shrill screams, protesting the sharp stinging slit, but I did it. Like scissors slicing through wrapping paper, a straight split along the dotted lines, and red ink spilling out.

I needed to do it.

The blood is thick and warm. It rolls down my elbows, dripping onto the white carpeted bedroom floor. It soaks into my shirt and jeans, staining my entire arm like henna. The strange urge to lick it and ingest the blood back into my body overwhelms me.

I push myself off the floor and stumble to the kitchen where I find the paper towels sitting on the counter. I strip three from the roll and press them to my arm, but the white is quickly soaked through with a bright vibrant red, radiating out like a starburst.

I toss them in the sink because it is closer than the garbage bin and grab a thicker wad to hold against my arm.

I may have gone a bit too far, but I'm not concerned, just a bit light headed, and I'm bleeding too much and it won't clot, and oh fuck, why won't it clot like it's supposed to?

I take the phone from the counter and hold it in my shaking hand. Shaking because I'm scared, shaking because of what I've just done (the complete and absolute permanence of what I've done) and shaking because of the pain that is now coursing up and down my arms like pins and needles. My entire body shudders and convulses in shivering heat.

I'm ready to dial numbers. I need to dial the numbers. After what happened, I need to call the police. I'm ready.

I go over my plan as my finger hovers over the button for the last digit. What I'll say when they get here. What I'll tell them happened. No—what actually happened.

I went out with him on a couple of dates over the past week or so while my roommate was gone. He seemed like a nice guy. And at first, he was a nice guy.

I liked him.

But he had problems. Drinking problems. Emotional problems, I think, too, but I wasn't sure. I didn't really want to find out. He started to frighten me. He hit me once after we had gone back to his place following a night out. He was starting to scare me, and I just wanted to break things off before they went any further.

It seemed okay at first.

I broke it off with him at a restaurant Sunday night. I've heard, when you are worried about doing something like that, it's best to do it in a public place. It's less likely something will... something will. Sorry, I'm just getting so worked up right now...

They'll hand me a tissue, or get me a drink of water, or make me a cup of tea or something, and then I'll go on.

He took it well it seemed. And things were fine.

At least at first.

But then he started coming to my apartment at night.

He would come to my floor and bang on my door. Trying the knob. Trying to get in, and I would cry in my living room and cover my ears, hoping he would just go away.