The thing is, he wasn't supposed to be there. I locked my door. Jack and Annie wouldn't wake me up if they knew what was good for them; a makeout session could be ended pretty quickly if one of them made the mistake of knocking on my door just to tell me they were home. It was by accident. (Is anything in this life an accident?) I read a book until my eyes started burning, so I tried to sleep. I did. But my delirious mind wouldn't stop racing, babbling on and on and on. After an hour or so of this madness, I felt that old familiar pull in my stomach, that little "so you could do it now if you wanted" temptation whispering in my ear.
So, I did. Just a little. Just pulled my sleeve up and made one simple little mark. And then another. And then another. And so forth, and so on. After I felt calmed down enough, I went in and took a sleeping pill. Just one. Just enough to ease my mind and make it easier to rest. I didn't bother to clean it up; who would be around to notice or care but me?
And then it happened. 5 minutes after midnight, the pounding. I could hear it, but I convinced myself it was part of the disjointed dream I was having about monkeys and swords and being involved in some sort of jungle war, humans vs. animals. We were winning, or at least I was, I think. The pounding...
I guess it must have been a frightening sight. There I was sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world, with one bloody arm stretched out, little drops of it on the sheet, and the knife near where my other hand was so carelessly strewn. I didn't see his expression when he succeeded in shoving the door open, but I imagine it must have been unlike any other I've ever seen on his face. Then the shaking. Dear God, it went on forever. He was shouting, too, shouting my name over and over. When I first got my eyes open I thought it was Jack, and then it occurred to me that he wouldn't be shouting my name, he'd be shouting "Mom," or something of that nature. So you'll excuse me for the accurate report that my first question was: "Jesus Christ, Carey, what the fuck are you doing here?"
So, I did. Just a little. Just pulled my sleeve up and made one simple little mark. And then another. And then another. And so forth, and so on. After I felt calmed down enough, I went in and took a sleeping pill. Just one. Just enough to ease my mind and make it easier to rest. I didn't bother to clean it up; who would be around to notice or care but me?
And then it happened. 5 minutes after midnight, the pounding. I could hear it, but I convinced myself it was part of the disjointed dream I was having about monkeys and swords and being involved in some sort of jungle war, humans vs. animals. We were winning, or at least I was, I think. The pounding...
I guess it must have been a frightening sight. There I was sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world, with one bloody arm stretched out, little drops of it on the sheet, and the knife near where my other hand was so carelessly strewn. I didn't see his expression when he succeeded in shoving the door open, but I imagine it must have been unlike any other I've ever seen on his face. Then the shaking. Dear God, it went on forever. He was shouting, too, shouting my name over and over. When I first got my eyes open I thought it was Jack, and then it occurred to me that he wouldn't be shouting my name, he'd be shouting "Mom," or something of that nature. So you'll excuse me for the accurate report that my first question was: "Jesus Christ, Carey, what the fuck are you doing here?"
