Abigail

The cold,

T-

he
metal.

The comfort-
ing hiss slowly
annihilates craves
for more. The anticipation
of relief, an appetite for the pulsing
red. The crimson flow of satin like rivers,
emanating from the one thing keeping me
from falling apart. To flood the pearly porcelain
with the blood of Satan, the arousing sound of droplets,
explodes on the hard, glistening surface with ferocity. Breathing
hitching slowly settling into a sigh of satisfaction. The rush of ruby
red diamonds spills up and over. Spills life. But the picture is not complete.
A few more rivers, and lines and pictures, until the realm of reality retreats;
my body has begun to tingle. I am treading in molasses. Fighting to conquer
the dark, thick, road block in my way. It seems to have curtained around me
, the severity of my actions is worse than ever before. I have hit rock bottom,
and am drowning in red. My body is undergoing intense demolition
as it fights to rise above this hostile pool, before it floods my
head and I go under. I begin to feel as though a
thick tarp is thrown over my head

and I am not strong enough to tread any longer.
I can not subdue this going under is unavoidable;
I have been fully emerged under and am
slowly suffocating. It is the end of my show
, a velvet curtain drops, and the stage is
black.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I didn't mean-Fuck.

I've really done it now,

haven't I? I've only been

here once before, and it

landed me in 8 months of

therapy after a scary trip

to the hospital. Fuck.

I push myself lower down

towards my body. It is an

eerie picture, I am detached,

after bleeding so much I had

passed out. It is slightly

patronizing, watching my

lifeless body slowly marinate

in the large puddle of blood

composing under my lifeless

structure. I cock my head

to the side as the door

downstairs slams shut.

Great. Mum's home. I

know that if I'm caught

in this state once again

I'll get more than therapy.

I fly down with what little

energy I have. Earnestly

trying to slam myself back

into my broken body. Once,

and I rise back up,

still hovering over myself.

Abigail! Are you home?

Her voice gives me the

motivation and even more

energy. I press my back

against the ceiling of the

bathroom and use an

extreme amount of effort

to force myself down onto

my figure and merge my

soul with its host.

Fuck. Twice, and I'm

still not in one piece.

I feel so ridiculously

Incompetent. I just nee-

Abigail? Are you in there?

My eyes dart to the door

handle jiggling around.

I place myself down in

one swift motion,

trying more of a gentle

approach. I black out

for a few moments.

I feel my eyelids flutter

open. Yes. My eyelids.

I survey the room and lift

my victimized arm up.

I examine the damage.

The doors handle shakes.

Shit, right. 'Y-yeah! Mum!

I'm fine. Sorry. I'm really-'

Jesus Christ, what

Took you so long to

Answer me? What're?

You doing in there?

'I cut myself shaving. It's

small, just cleaning up.

I'll be right out in a second,

want to make us some tea?'

This perks her right up,

I notice the difference

of colour in her tone.

Oh yes! Dear, that sounds

marvelous. I didn't know

you still liked tea, it's been

so long. Good thing I picked

up some macaroons today-

I drown out her babbling as

the cool running water of

the tap grasps all of my

attention. Goosebumps crawl

up my arm, as it begins to

tingle. The blood washes off

quite easily, though the cut is

deep and still bleeding. I sway

back and forth trying to

regain proper consciousness

and recover from the adrenaline

rush I recently endured.

I instruct my weak limbs to

bandage up my battle wound

tightly and I lazily swirl a black

towel around on the white tiles.

I huff and puff at the mess.

Reaching for the bleach under

the counter with my good arm.

It takes me a good 20 minutes,

to clean up the bloody

mess with no mop and

one functioning arm. I set

aside all evidence of my recent

incident. Throwing on a long

sleeved hoodie and head

downstairs, My mother looks

almost too excited when I sit

down at the table. Thankfully she

was too wrapped up to

notice just how long it took

me to fix a 'small cut'.

Ohh dear I made your

old favourite! Chai tea!

She's almost shaking with

excitement as she reaches

the table with 2 antique tea

cups, neatly placed on

their matching saucers.

There is a plate of macaroons

Under a doily. It's been so long since I've actually

sat down with my mum.

With either of my parents

actually. It's been 2 years

but none of us are quite

back to our normal selves

just yet. Though we try.

Like right now, we're

finally trying to move on,

let go. Get on with our

lives. Though I'm a hypocrite

to complain about letting go.

But this just might be the

first step. The thought almost
makes me laugh, I'm no where

near any kind of 'recovery'.
I'm more damaged than
ever, with the presence of an
insensitive, cynical mother.

Ah, these were

always Tyler's favourites'.

The name sends a deep
shiver down my spine as
anger rapidly takes over me.

I want to smack the stupid

macaroon out of her hand
and slap that pathetic

smile off her face. I

loudly pick up my tea

cup and slam it back

down onto its saucer.

She looks up at me,

perplexed.

'Are you

fucking kidding me?'

She knows we're not

at that point yet. Hell,

I don't know if we ever
will be.

But for now,

reminiscing and thinking

about his previous existence

doesn't bring anything but

painful memories.

Which in time will

dull down. But there

clearly hasn't been

enough time. We've

got to wait, be patient,

but not my fucking mother,

she just has to jump into

things when nobody is ready

without a second thought
or considering how it might
make anyone else feel.

Excuse me Abigail?

We sit in silence for

a few seconds, just

staring at each other.

I have always wondered

If she knew what she was

doing and just how wrong

and selfish it is. Obviously

she has needed a lot less

time than anybody else in

this house to grieve her

sons death. The thought

makes me feel sick, disgusted.

The thought of her does the same.

She wears a look of confusion

and shock. I've never spoken

that way too anybody, never

mind my parents, in that

way before. I move

my chair from it's place,

pick up a macaroon

and drop it onto the

floor, not even pausing

once to look at her face.

I turn on my heel, push

the chair in and casually

walk towards the staircase.

Keeping my eyes on each step

before me, I start up the stairs

focusing painfully hard

on not crying, waiting
until I reach my room

and then tears begin to fall.