The ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor were cool against my bare legs, which, like the rest of my body, were on fire. I was shaking all over and drenched in a cold sweat. I felt like one of those drug addicts from the movies—bloodshot eyes, sweating, trembling all over—desperate for another fix. No, it wasn’t a bottle, it wasn’t a needle, it wasn’t a pill, but it was something just as satisfying. From across the room, I could just hear that blade whispering my name, taunting me, daring me to pick it up and make the first mark. My vision blurred for several seconds and then focused back in on the razor.
It wasn’t even mine. I had taken it from my roommate’s medicine cabinet. He’d never miss it; he was rarely here anyway. Adam was always out somewhere, whether it was some club in town, drinking and partying, or on his bus heading to some venue in another town, in another state. He lived an outrageous lifestyle: one of glamour, sex, music, and God knows what else. I got to go with him once; he had a two-night gig in New York City, and since he knew I’d never been, he took me with him. Being on the road was a wild experience, alright—expensive hotels, crazed fans, sleeping all day and playing all night. I missed him so much when he was away. He was my best friend, almost like a brother, but sometimes a little more.
The apartment we shared was so lonely when he was away, too quiet. I was so used to waking up in the morning to strong, aromatic coffee, the sound of his voice as he hummed under his breath or sang along with the radio that played in our kitchen. I missed the sound of his laughter and I could barely dress myself in the morning anymore without my personal fashion consultant.
At first I was alright. I was never one to have separation anxiety, but the days turned into weeks, and I sank back into a hole that had long since been filled and forgotten. I wasn’t the stupid teenager who whipped out a razorblade the minute a situation went sour anymore. With some serious counseling and mild antidepressants, I had basically returned to my old happy-go-lucky self.
Having graduated from college, I moved away from Minneapolis and took a cross-country road trip to California, where I had dreamed of making a life for myself since I was probably eight or nine years old. I wanted to make it big in the music industry, but now here I was, twenty-five years old, singing in a coffee shop and then bartending on the weekends. Not exactly the “record label smash hit” that I’d been hoping for, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
No sooner had my bitter tears begun to fall and I willed myself to press the metal blade into my flesh, the apartment door opened and then clicked shut. I froze. Alas, in my panic, I had drawn a gruesome red line right down the middle of my right forearm. It was a deep one, but it didn’t even hurt. At first, it looked like I’d just drawn a long, thin line with bright red lipstick. But within a matter of seconds, that innocent-looking crimson streak grew darker the longer it became exposed to the air, and it trickled fast down my arm. As the footsteps continued, I fumbled around blindly for some toilet paper or some tissues, something—anything—to stop the bleeding before whoever had just walked in here found me.
I heard the thud of something heavy—a bag, maybe?—being dropped carelessly to the floor. Quiet as a mouse, and with my good arm reaching out for something to clean up the mess I had made, I tried to push myself up out of my slouched sitting position. Carelessly, I turned at the waist and used my elbows to brace myself against the toilet lid, and my arm gushed even more blood, that glistening, dark red, life-giving substance, the same stuff that could kill me if I lost enough of it. I hissed as the product of my stupidity burned mercilessly and it was only when I heard the approaching footsteps that I dearly wished that I could take back that small cry of agony and swallow it back down. As the hollow treads sounded on the wood floor, my breath hitched in my throat, and then I caught a familiar, unmistakable scent—sweet, somewhat spicy, and utterly intoxicating. It can’t be! I thought in disbelief. He—he’s not due home until… Oh, God. What day was it? Sunday. It was him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! I’m in so much trouble now!
Then another voice, that little Jiminy Cricket voice (what’s that called?) in the back of my head, said: “Well, what did you expect, Christine? Did you think you’d get away with it forever? Did you think someone wouldn’t eventually find out? Did you think HE wouldn’t find out?”
Fresh tears built up behind my eyes and threatened to spill over again and I blinked hard to prevent them from falling, even though I knew that effort would soon prove futile. I swallowed the California-sized lump in my throat and waited. Whatever blood was left within me thumped in my ears, deafening me so that I could barely hear his footsteps anymore. I felt cold now, numb, but I didn’t dare look down at my blood-soaked clothes. Through my half-open lids, I spotted the toe of a snakeskin boot.
YOU ARE READING
Aftermath
FanfictionChristine has a few demons that have been silent for several years. When they resurface, can her roommate, Adam, save her from herself, or will it be too late?
