I didn't get a wink of sleep last night. Everything seemed normal at first. I was coming home from visiting my father and sisters for the first time in about a month. At around nine PM, my father offered to dive me home. During casual conversation, he mentions to me another family member is dying of a terminal illness. As if it were something I already knew. So far, six members of my family have this disease, including a 4-year-old cousin of mine who was born with it. Casual. Casual. Like I already knew it.
After I got home, I was still reeling from it. I tried to lie down on my bed and get some sleep when I heard screaming. There's always screaming where I live. Always. Still, I was curious. It seemed close. I looked outside my window and saw a man and woman arguing. Arguing. Only them. And then, she pulls out a knife and stabbs him to death. Sunk the knife into his chest over and over and over again. Blood flows like water, did you know that? It's thicker than water, but it runs just as freely. She killed him. Murder. Murder. She killed him. He's dead. Never to return. Dead.
I didn't even... I don't think I was sad. I think I was just relieved for him. Relieved. Isn't that strange? I was relieved. Maybe even jealous...? He didn't know what I knew. His pain was over. I think I even smiled.
Police. Sirens. Ambulance. For what? Ambulance. For what? He's already dead. For what? Ambulance. He's already dead. Ambulance. Ha ha. Dead. Ha ha. Ambulance.
I turned out the light and tried to sleep. 10 pm. 11. Midnight. One am. Two. My stomach started to hurt. My stomach started to ache. I had a craving. A craving. For blood.
Blood. Blood. I had a craving for blood? Blood. Blood! I haven't had a craving like that since I was 15. 15! My stomach started to ache. I wanted blood. Blood! 15! I searched for my knife in the dark. My knife. I looked for it in the dark. Blood. I wanted it. Badly.
My stomach started to ache. I wanted blood. I wanted to drink it. Like when I was 15. Gorge myself with it. Swallow. Drink. Drink. Until it felt heavy in my gut. Until I became sickened with it. Until I had to run to the bathroom and vomit it all up in the sink like I used to. Smear it over the porcelain. Smile. Taste it in my mouth. Lick it a way. I wanted to bring my knife over my tongue, put it down my throat, open up my skin. I wanted to taste my blood again, swallow it, feel it settle in my gut. I wanted to feel the pull on my veins as I bled out into the sink. I wanted to smell the stink of it, feel it cool on my skin and stick my fingers together. I used to get off on that so easily.
I examined my scars in the dark. Felt over my wrists. Felt over my wrists. I wanted blood. I felt over my left forearm. Felt the raised, deformed skin that spelled out his name. His name. Him. I miss him. I want him back. I love him.
I hate him.
I wish he would die.
I hate him.
I love him.
I loathe him... I want him back. I love him. I'm so in love. I miss him. I want him. I want him back. I miss him. I love him. I wish he would die. I wanted to cut him open and drink his blood.
He's carved into my arm. I see it every day. I miss him. I love him. I wish he would die. He's literally under my skin. Under my skin. He'll be there forever, and even after that. He's there. Always. Always. I wanted blood. Scars. His name. I love him. I wish he would die. I hate him. I miss him. I want him back. I wanted blood. I wanted to know what it felt like to kill again. Murder. Death everywhere. It invades my senses. I looked over my scars in the dark. My stomach ached so badly. I dug my fingernails into the wall, scraping, scratching, like a wild animal. There are still paint chips under my nails. My stomach ached for it. I cried for it. I loathe him. I wish he would die.
He is me. I loved him. A long time ago. I abandoned him. A long time ago. He is me. I was him... I abandoned him. Left him for something better. Or so I thought... I abandoned who I was for another shot at life. For what? To watch everyone else die. Watch them die. Cut myself. Again. Again. Cut myself. I cut myself up last night.
New scars. They're beautiful. I'm in love with them.
I need blood.
The old me. Who I used to be. The blood-drinker, the cutter, the massochist. The person who used to make fun of corpses and sleep in graveyards. I miss him.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Mon Mar 07, 2005 @ 01:00pm · 2 Comments |
