Friday, December 12, 2014

Giving Grief a Voice

#writeingrief Day 5



I was standing in the kitchen when I saw her sitting against the wall, knees bent up. I turned toward her and asked, “Why are you following me?” She looked up at me with my eyes.

“I’m always with you," she said; I noticed the dark circles under her eyes--my eyes--and the sagging skin that hung from her face.

"But who are you?" Her scarred arms rested on her knees and when she moved blood oozed from cuts that covered her body. I couldn’t focus on her entire form at once.
I had to step toward her to hear her soft voice. She said, "You can’t stop me or hide from me. I'm always with you. You know who I am." I couldn't stand looking into those eyes that she stole from me. Her hair was long in some places but had been torn out in other spots, so her scalp bled where chunks of hair should have been. "I know what you're thinking. I'm ugly. You can't fix me. You can’t dress me in better clothes and shiny shoes."

She was right. I looked down at her feet. They were bare and bloody. I screamed at her to leave me alone.

"I won't," she said.

"Get the fuck away from me! I don't want you here!" I picked up the knife that was drying by the sink and stabbed her in the chest. I expected an explosion or a pile of goo like in the movies when fantastical monsters are killed, but she just looked up at me with my eyes.

"You can’t kill me; you can't hide from me; you can't ignore me. Haven't you noticed when you try to hide from me I latch on, digging into your body one nail at a time?"

I looked at her hands. A small needle-like blade extended from each finger. Almost invisible but razor sharp.

"You've felt these. In your neck. Your heart. Your gut. All over. Look at me. Each time I pierce your skin, I bleed."

I noticed her scars again and the open wounds. "Why wouldn't you just leave me then? Why make yourself bleed?"

"Don't you see how we're connected? Take my hands. Look at me," she reached up toward me, but I turned away. The moment I stepped out of the room her knives were in my back.

I couldn't shake her free, so I fell face to the floor and spoke to her. "Ok. Ok, tell me what to do."

Her weight moved off of my body, so I lifted my head from the floor. "Take my hands. Every day. Look at me, hold onto me, talk to me. I'll still bleed, but this way is better."

I knew she was right, so I took her hands and we walked together. I flinched and a fresh red drop traced a line down her arm. “Just hold on,” she reminded me. I held her then with a strong, careful grip.