having drawn a circle

He was admitted five days after his girlfriend found him crouched on the bathroom floor, blood-rusted spoon in his hand and two moist holes where his eyes used to be. Three days before the incident, they’d shared a bottle of wine on a rooftop, the sky above them cluttered with clouds. He pointed out constellations anyway, scratching their formations on her arm, drawing blood and mythic stories with a pin until she couldn’t hold the gasps in.

She can’t stop staring at her arms now, can’t stop trying to recall those stories and whatever hidden messages they might have contained. His mother calls every day, leaves increasingly incoherent and blame-riddled recordings on the machine and she can hear his father weeping in the background, begging the girl to tell them why. They blame her, sometimes– she can hear the hoarse whispers that come through in the middle of the night. Condemnations that she doesn’t need anyone to give her because she’s thought of them already. There’s a scar on her thigh for every one.

She tries not to think about him in that bathroom but she wakes up sometimes, the echo of his anguished tones in her ear. I used to think I needed these, I really did. Don’t you understand? Why do we even need these anymore when everyone walks around like they’re blind? I know you’re there. I can smell your cigarette. You can’t say I’m wrong. You know it. You know it and you act just like the rest of them. you know it you know it you know it you know it you know it–


2 responses

  1. That was an excellent post today. You make it look so easy. Thanks so much for sharing it. I
    really enjoyed reading it very much. You have a wonderful day!

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    Writers Wanted

    July 28, 2012 at 6:20 pm

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