James Mandarin

Washing Machine

Last night, my parents fought over the electricity bills and the amount of water used by our dusty washing machine. I stayed in my bedroom trying to solve some simultaneous equations and exponential graphs -anything to keep me away from the loud voices booming in the hallway. Seven questions were done before I gave up and hid myself under the covers. My head sunk into the pillow as the voices raged outside my door. My arm twitched and burned. My head spun as the urge to bleed took a hold once again.

I gritted my teeth and prayed it would stop. I thought of flying in the sky; of falling and breaking into fragments of skin, muscle, bones and blood.

Blood.

I wanted to feel it trickle down my arm. I wanted to feel numb, high and ecstatic.

I wanted to take the razor beside my bed, and sit on the tiles in my bathroom. I wanted to talk to the white walls about life, mathematics and painting.

That's the thing with walls. They always listen. They never judge. They never laugh, and even better, they don't interrupt me.

I wanted to talk to them, as I'd make my first cut. Then a second, a third, a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh...

Instead, I squeezed my eyelids tight and hummed a song. I do not know its name, but mum used to sing it to me a long time ago.

She had a voice of an angel. Now it cracks and dies like a fire being extinguished. She doesn't sing anymore. Now, bitter words come out of her mouth, infecting me, infecting the house, infecting her marriage.

"You're fucking wasting electricity, you bitch!" my dad yelled. "What do you think we are? Rich, with ten million dollars in the bank account?"

"Well, we would be, if you didn't sit on your fat arse all day, chugging down beer!" my mum countered.

I bit my lips. I covered my ears. Nothing. Nothing worked. The voices became louder and louder. Blood rushed into my brain. My tongue swirled in a pool of saliva as I closed my eyes.

I had to do it. I couldn't stop it. No one would understand the feeling. No one would understand the urges.

I threw the covers off me and placed my feet on the rugged floor. I gently took the razor from the table and made my way to the bathroom, situated near my wardrobe.

I sat on the floor next to the bathtub, refusing to look in the mirror before me. I took off my shirt and began talking to the walls. I told them about simultaneous equations, of winter and spring, dancing by myself to a tune and painting landscapes.

And they listened. They absorbed every single word I said.

The razor stayed in my hand, between two fingers. Old scars marred my left arm. They were now faded, lumpy, ugly. I concentrated on what I had to do next. The razor shook in my hand as it neared my skin.

It hurt.

It prickled.

Opening old wounds is never fun, but this time it gave me a rush. Ecstasy filled my brain as the beads of red erupted from beneath the skin. I made a second, a third, a fourth. My heart would stop at the sudden pain before my head fluttered like little feathers in the wind.

As my blood seeped onto the tiles, as the walls remained quiet, and the mirror watched me, I became free. My problems melted away as a rush of air expelled out of my lungs.

I was in paradise.

I was breathless, and it had never felt so good.