Pain Killer

11 ~ Lost at Sea

I manage to pull what's left of my demeanor together. It takes all my willpower to get up off the floor. I fill the kettle, wondering which kind of tea sounds easiest on the swirly, twirly feeling in my stomach.

I settle for the lemon ginger in the very back of Martha's collection. I doubt she even knows it's there.

Knowing that if I sit down now, it would be unlikely I would get up again; I stand still in the kitchen, listening to the bubbling noises of the fire beneath the water. They remind me of back when I used to have nightmares and wake up my parents, tears in my eyes. Groggily, one of them would get up, yawning. It was usually Caroline.

A kettle very similar to Martha's would be waiting for us, already full of water. All it would take is a flick of the knob and my choice of a mug and tea bag.

I would still be sniffling as we silently waited for the water to warm. Caroline would yawn a few more times, sometimes handing me a Kleenex. At those moments, I would think about what would happen if I snuck my little arms around her waist. What would she do, I wondered. I remember staring at her silhouette which I thought was beautiful under the soft floodlights of the kitchen. It made me feel better after my childish nightmares awoke me.

The nightgown I often wore at the time is still fresh in my mind. Pink and frilly around the hem and sleeves. I loved the way it spread out when I spun around on my pink-painted toenails. My parents even smiled at my giggles of glee.

I find my fingers tracing the hem of my hoodie as if it had those lovely pink frills.

The kettle, I suddenly realize, has been screaming for at least a minute. I fill my mug, making the tea bag dance up and down excitedly.

The smell of ginger and lemon assails my nose. The warmth against my fingers, the steam caressing my face, I relax, sliding against the wall down to the floor. The tiles are cold under my legs.

I want to see Uri. I'm sure he's busy though. I pull my mind off the idea of bothering him. It feels strange to think about bothering someone just for me and myself. I've never known someone who would be alright with me doing that. Is he really alright with it? I'm not exactly sure. A part of me remembers what he said on that day. He said it was okay. I think. But then again, it could all be in my head. Perhaps he only means it for when I want to cut.

I do remember the promise I made to him. I would call him if I ever wanted to touch the scissors. So why do I feel guilty, dialing that number? Why does it feel as if I'm just dumping my troubles onto his shoulders? There's a large part of me that just believes it would be better to give the bloody slice than unload more of my pain on him and take up more of his time. As if I don't already take enough as it is.

Realizing my tea has gone lukewarm, I take a long and slow sip. The ginger is too strong. It burns the back of my throat.

I don't notice the light in the room dim with the setting sun. Only when Martha unlocks the door, my trance slips away and my legs finally tell me they can't move.

I look up as Martha turns on the lights to see me on the floor, squinting up at her.

She gives a short gasp. "You scared me, Delilah!" She chuckles, her hand on her chest. Her relieved sigh doesn't go unnoticed as she looks at my wrists, bandage free. The little creases by her eyes seem deeper than normal, the circles darker. I feel like I'm the cause of them.

"Hi," I croak out, my voice coarse from unuse.

"How are you doing? Are you alright?" Martha sets her purse on the counter, hanging up her jacket and keys on the hooks.

I can feel the chill from outside lingering on her clothes. "I'm fine," comes my robotic answer.

"Did you eat?"