Gauze, toilet paper, torn socks, tape, a bandana, he learned how to walk in a certain way, numerous wristbands, left-handed poker, he reached deep for the mean to keep his wound under wraps. He told himself that the circle was supposed to be the last one. He lied. A half-inch wrench was branded on to his left bicep a week later. Those two flesh wounds did not compare to what he had done to himself that morning. Charlie was in disbelief.
He questioned his lack of reason again and again in his numb-shaken head. It was morning and again, he wasn’t tired. He asked me when it was going to stop, but I didn’t respond. “It has to stop,” he said. “How much more can I take? I’m tired of being scared and alone, and full of pain.”
He felt as though he was trapped in a nightmare. This time the nightmare was his life and all he could do was think of how he’s managed to deal with it in his sleep.I’m lying in bed trying to sleep. As I think about my day, my life, my future, my randomness, I feel a presence, an evil presence. It jerks me around and I get scared. It lets me watch as it pulls my soul apart from my body. I kick and scream. It laughs. Finally I’m able to open my eyes in an effort to make it vanish, but if I don’t move, I’m back under its control. The feeling has gotten so great that I am convinced. I am convinced that I will die if I don’t continue to struggle to escape its torturous treatment of my torso and soul.
His “evil” visits, as he so delicately described, started more than a decade ago. That is when Charlie was first introduced to me by one of his brothers. Charlie is an easy target. He believes our rendezvous (p.), are demons of his sleep. He’s tried to convince himself that they are hereditary. His insecurities are a riot without a product to loot. My favorite part is when he “refuses to blame his beginnings.” His claimed responsibility is a noble effort to ignore and suppress my presence. What a valiant little boy. One day I will sincerely miss his muffled cries for help, one day indeed.
Detoured Memories
“Oh no, what have I done?” Charlie asked. “It’s so big. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.” He spun his head in all directions. A light pant began to escape his gut. Charlie was thinking about his future for the first time. Blood poured from both ends of the gash. It ran off his elbow and dripped onto his carpet, his desk, his clothes and the chair he squirmed atop of in disbelief. He ran into the bathroom and pulled a fat wad of toilet paper from the dispenser on the wall.
That wad was soon sitting on the floor drenched in blood. The sight of his own physical anatomy frightened Charlie into a frenzy. The Gash There is a clock that hangs in the center of the wall adjacent to the rear of my desk. I need only to look up and slightly to the right to check the time. An alarm clock sits on the window sill directly to my left. It only takes a glance and a hand motion to move the curtain. I left my watch on the dining room table. If someone were to stand over it, they would be able to tell the hour. I didn’t raise my head in any direction or turn around and make a hand motion. I certainly wasn’t about to walk out of my room, across the hall and by the bathroom. Then I would have to make a left hand turn under a door way, followed by an immediate right, only to find myself in front of the T.V. in the den. Then I would have to take another 6 six steps to finally reach the dining room table, just to check the  ing time. I remember there were birds chirping and some music was playing. I felt under control. I reached down for a taste of the mashed potatoes on my desk and burned my tongue.
The Gash Part 2
He stuck the spoon back into the bowl.
“Fuck,” said Charlie. “That’s too hot.”
“Let’s look for something to do; kill the time,” I said.
“Like what?” Charlie said.
“Whatever; check in you drawer,” I replied. Charlie opened the drawer to his desk with his right hand. He began to move around its insides.
“What am I looking for?” He said.
“You’ll know, when you see it,” I told him.
“Just forget about the mashed potatoes,” I continued, “give them the same attention you were given earlier tonight.”
“That was my fault,” said Charlie.
“Don’t blame your self for their mistakes,” I said. Although Charlie was alone in his room, he heard everything that I said. “Close your eyes and reach for something,” I said. Charlie pulled a box-cutter out of his desk. He’s had these since he worked as a merchandiser. Now he used them to cut and paste various spawns of his creativity. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Charlie asked.
“Same thing you always do when you’re alone,” he heard me say. “Burn the pain Charlie.” Charlie took a look at the edge of the blade and said, “Fuck it!”
“At a boy,” I said.
“But I’m not going to around with small scratches. I’m just going to give it one good pull,” he said. “I’m going to use enough pressure to open my skin,” he added.
Charlie placed the blade on the skin of his left inner forearm. He held it firmly with his right hand. Without too much hesitation, he pulled it down and across his skin. The blade he used was not one of his own. His blades are mostly worn out; due to the large amount of cutting he did on his desk. That was the reason for the added, “pressure.” The palm of that hand on that arm turned toward his face, raised parallel with his chest is a place tainted with a memory of values he never followed.
You’ll see a few things. First you’ll notice that his fingers are almost always pointed up. Next you’ll see the horizontal gash that is now a scare. It starts from about 4 inches below the left side of his left wrist and moves down in the opposite direction. The skin shines with moldy tissue that will never properly grow to be the same. It is about three-sixteenths of an inch wide and is surrounded by numerous points of insertions where a needle wove in and out of that skin to keep it from excessively bleeding.
Orientation
The den and living room were still in disarray from the night before. The marble in the den had black spots from spilt beer. Some parts were sticky with dry beer. The love seat was pushed back against the sliding glass door. A strobe light stood quietly on top of the corner table beside beer bottles of Spanish countries. The butts of cigarettes Charlie managed and dropped remained in their original floral positions. Three rooms of his house were filled with a bar-like stench. The atmosphere he surrounded was full of dirt left behind by unripe chosen sweeps of vacant happiness. Charlie ran past last night’s memory and kicked a piece then some trash that came in between his journey to Nick’s.
Nick had a young-woman-type caller that night. The door to Nick’s bedroom was seldom left unlocked. He used bedroom hours and traded in vowels for righteous reason to keep, Charlie did not bother the knob on Nick’s door that morning. He went straight for its heart. This door covered Charlie with shadows on body and bronze medal goals. He rapped it with boldness to séance its pride of self-development. Charlie stood before the door and dreamt of dreaming. That stupid nurtured child, who bled through with fault, then rapidly rang designs that gutted free art, rang it well for less than a spell then reached down, turned its machine and walked in on a whim. |
