Long-Distance Calls

42

The feeling of coldness, the kind that sends shivers all over your body by breaking your comfortable temperature, was enough to bring doubts onto my mind as to what I was actually doing in that bathroom that day.

Though the doubts weren't enough to make me rethink it and stop that madness, I kept the cold blade on my wrist.

The cold coming from the metallic object prompted a scent through my nostrils. A metallic smell, but it couldn't be from the blade, too far from my nose's reach. It was the smell of blood, though there wasn't any. Yet, that is.

Gone was the coldness now. The blade was overwhelmed by my body's temperature, and its metallic menace was vanished. Still, my heart was racing, faster than ever, and my hands were sweating, and my eyes didn't want to blink.

One little pressure of my hand on that blade, on my wrist, and it would all be over. No more heartaches, no more anxiety, no more sadness.

I raised the blade away from my wrist, suddenly I felt warm. I reached the point of my wrist where I could see the blue, purplish vein. If I looked closely at it, I could even see it pulsating. Pulsating fast. I lay the blade right on that point. Was it possible that it already hurt, just laying it there?

Now all I had to do was take a deep breath (or maybe not take any) and apply a little pressure. The rest would fall right in line, wouldn't it?

I did take a deep breath, but it didn't reach its climax. I don't remember the last time I took a proper deep breath. So I had to yawn. Yawn hard. Tears forming into my eyes from the yawning, so now I couldn't see the blade I was holding into my hand to my wrist. Good.

I flexed the muscle of my right arm, the one I was supposed to apply pressure from. I quickly thought about all that work out I'd been doing at home. How I reached the point where if I flexed, I could actually see something.

All for nothing, though. Still as miserable as I was before. Feeling good is just a momentary distraction from the guaranteed misery of our lives.

Just. a. little. pressure. That's all.

Another deep breath. Failed. Didn't even bother to yawn, this time.

I did apply pressure, yes, but only for a millisecond and by mistake, when I jumped after three rapid knocks on the door. "Pete, are you in there?" my mom shouted.

It was like waking up from a dream, or maybe a nightmare, and taking control back over your life. I quickly put the blade back to its place, as the knocks on the door became insistent. I stood up and unlocked the door, my mom entering quickly followed.

"What are you doing in here?" she said.

"Nothing," I mumbled, head down, as if ashamed of what she stopped me from almost doing.

"Pete, what is it with you?" she suddenly asked.

I raised my head to look at her. "What do you mean?" I was surprised by how deep my voice sounded.

"You're always so sad-looking," she said, "you never smile."

"Please," I said, walking towards my room.

"If something's wrong," she said, looking down, sounding distant, "you can tell me."

"Okay," I said, before I locked myself back in my room.