88 lines
4.3 KiB
HTML
88 lines
4.3 KiB
HTML
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<title>Zk | 006</title>
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<h1>Zk | 006</h1>
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<article class="content">
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<hr />
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<p>date: 2019-10-10
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weight: 6</p>
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<hr />
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<p>Okay, I lied. Just a little bit.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Yes. You didn’t dissociate through the entire thing. There was no small part of that scene that was horribly, terrfyingly intentional.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>What really woke me up was watching this person-who-was-me somehow go into ‘fuck it’ mode and tear the shit out of his right arm from one end to the other with a very sharp, very new razor blade.</p>
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<p>It was like the rush of coming to your senses after a nightmare, the pulling forward and the re-anchoring, the flood of adrenaline in preparation for flight.</p>
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<p>It wasn’t necessarily the cut that woke me. It was the second or so before when I entered that ‘fuck it’ mode, and I was too slow, too confused and frightened to stop this person-who-was-me from pulling the ultimate embarrassing act: trying to commit suicide while watching a dumb ’90s science fiction show.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>It was a slow awakening. You weren’t just too slow, you were not fully awake yet. The dream of dissociation was still clinging, gauzy, to you.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<div class="verse">V
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I do not know which to prefer,
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The beauty of inflections
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Or the beauty of innuendoes,
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The blackbird whistling
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Or just after.</div>
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<p>I can remember it so clearly.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You can remember it because you still live it.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes. I still feel that slide into someone-else-ness, and then the snap back when drawn back into self-ness. Back into here and now.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You felt that last night.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You felt that slide into dissociation, felt the folding blade click into place with a vague sense of surprise, then jolted as it drew across your leg.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You felt that same jolt of humiliation and pain and anger and fear.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Especially this time. You cut too deep. Your usual superficial-yet-still-painful scratch had turned into something of a flay.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>You needed twelve stitches. You lied and said you dropped your knife while cleaning it.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Yes.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Are you writing about this now because you were, on some subconscious level, working up to this most recent little climax?</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>I really don’t know.</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Tell me what happened after.</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>I started whispering James’ name–</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Both times?</p>
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</blockquote>
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<p>Both times. I started whispering his name, then eventually swallowed the miniscule bit of pride I had left and called out loud enough to wake him up. “Can you come help me?” I asked. It took asking two more times before he got up. I found out later that he thought I had made a mess and just wanted help cleaning up, thinking that I should just clean up my own messes. A good point, that.</p>
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<p>Though the rest of the night in March is still sort of a blur — I hadn’t totally gotten out of the state that I was in, just woken up enough to engage with the mechanics — I do remember James helping me to clean and bandage my arm as we sat on the floor of the bathroom, the dog occasionally wandering in and out. The whole time, I was still sobbing, blubbering out, “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to leave Zephyr, I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry” over and over again.</p>
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</article>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-24</p>
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