Wordless Conversations // Phan (sequel to Bring Me Home)

43

I woke up to the sound of my alarm in my ears.

I turned it off, stretching, before climbing out of bed.

I'm ready.

Going to put on my suit, I stopped.

I wouldn't be able to get to my arms with it on.

Instead, I just threw the shirt on and grabbed a bottle of gin from my stash.

I gulped it down quickly, stopping short as I reached for another.

Why are you getting drunk? It'll only numb the pain.

Why don't you take it.

You've been waiting so long for this.

Why are you putting it off?

You can't back out now.

The light was fading out and my vision wasbeing filled with static and noise.

Blimking only made the vision worse, and flying vultures came swooping into view, squawking and flashing menacing eyes towards me in disgust.

Stop getting worked up.

Do it, you wimp.

With that, I found myself slamming the bottle into the bathroom wall, watching as glass flew everywhere and alcohol soaked me.

The sound it emulated wavered in my ears as I crouched down on the floor, looking.

I needed to find the perfect one.

The sharpest one.

There.

My fingers grasped the glass eagerly.

I was like a bloodthirsty wolf.

It had been so long.

I needed this.

Go on, then.

Without hesitation I brought the drenched glass to my wrist and cut slowly into my skin.

I savoured the pain as it flooded through me, ripping a scream from my throat.

Why are you happy?

You shouldn't be enjoying this.

"I'm not." I gasped out defensively.

Upon hearing my voice, I stopped as a veil seemed to drop off from around me.

I suddenly saw everything.

I hadn't even realised my hand was split and bloody from the sharp edges of the glass.

I was gripping it so tightly.

Blood already covered the tiled floor.

My head turned upwards to look at myself in the mirror.

My clothes were drenched with alcohol.

My face was red and tear stained.

My lips were trembling, my eyes puffy and swollen.

My hair was askew, and I watched as the person in the mirror snarled at me.

"You wimpy idiot, why did you stop!" I yelled.

Looking back down to my arm I remembered I was holding the glass.

My hand grasped tighter around the sharp edges, splitting my palm open.

Soon, more cuts were made on my wrist to accompany the first one.

I took my time, watching as the torn skin puffed up and the blood serenly pooled at the site of each incision.

There must have been at least two hundred cuts before I moved onto my other arm.

I was so entranced by every mark that appeared on my arm, so drunk and disillusioned that I hadn't noticed the sun was setting until an orange light spread across the floor in front of me, catching my eye.

The sun is setting.

Go have a look.