The Whispers

21: Bleeding

"A hallucination is a fact, not an error; what is erroneous is a judgment based upon it." - Bertrand Russell, British mathematician.

My foot won't stop bleeding.

I am at my window, watching as Harper drives away with the one thing that makes me happy in this world. The one thing that makes it worthwhile to get out of bed. The one thing that actually brings me the slightest bit of joy.

The box.

There's blood everywhere. In my carpet, my socks, my hands, and it even somehow got on my cheekbone. I am sitting on the bathroom floor now, my socks discarded, a wet rag in my hand and a pair of tweezers pulling at the razor. Maybe I should just leave it there - I heard you weren't supposed to take a knife out of someone's chest, does the same apply to razors in feet?

When I finally grab hold of the blade with my tweezer, I feel the thin piece of metal carefully come out of my foot, making me bleed more. The smell of iron fills my nostrils and I flinch.

I press my rag to it but the pressure I applied just seemed to urge the blood on. I am now sitting in a pool of the red liquid, shaking, wanting Harper back. Harper was the only constant thing in my life and he left. He left with something that makes me feel better about life. He left with drugs.

If Mom were here I'm sure she would sigh, mop up the blood, and put some kind of super healing cream on me. I'm not sure if that's really a thing, but she was convinced the cream she put on band-aids worked magic - every time Maggie or I got hurt she spread the stuff on the wound like butter on toast. She would do it without looking at our faces through the whole process - she was good at that. She would hear us crying or she'd hear something break and she'd come rushing in, looking everywhere but our face for the cut, and immediately take care of it. We are the children of Norton Standish, after all, she had to make sure we were alive.

I know dad loves us. His dream was to have six kids, all small with blue eyes and freckles just like me. I guess that's why they adopted Maggie - they wanted more kids and for reasons I can only assume involve the infertility of one of them, they turned to adoption. I wonder what happened - was it just bad luck? Did Mom secretly get her uterus removed because she hated me? Did Dad decide to get a hysterectomy because he didn't know if his condition was genetic and didn't want to pass it on to more people? If that were the case then why did he ask Maggie if she could hear the voices? Did he just want to know if other people could hear the bugs, too?

I am crying now. I seem to cry a lot these days. The blood will not stop gushing from my foot, the smell of iron is overtaking the bathroom, my mom left me, my sister is dying, and now I have nobody. I am sitting in a river of my own blood, high, and the one person who was there for me through all of this is gone.

I wish I didn't break my phone. Then maybe I would be getting an update from the hospital. Maybe I would be able to get a hold of Stella - let her help me and be the charity case she wants.

I throw my rag across the room. I guess across the room is a bit of a stretch as there are only about eight feet between the door and wall with the bathtub. Maybe I should get in the bathtub to contain the blood?

I get up, hopping on one foot, and make my way to the tub. I lower myself in and spill red all over the bottom of the porcelain bath. It looks terrifying. It looks like I've killed something and am horrible and cleaning. It's as if I'm in a horror movie after my murderer killed me in the shower.

I can't believe he's done this to me - I can't believe he would leave me like this after everything we've been through.

Can I believe it? I guess I can. All things considered, I don't think I really knew him.

I don't think it would have ever worked out between Harper and I, anyway. We went too deep too fast and despite all the fucked up things we've shared I feel like we never really knew each other. What was his favourite colour? Did he like to cook? What did he do in his spare time?

I think I was only drawn towards him because he seemed just as fucked up ad I am. We both hear voices, though his are probably due to hallucinations from drugs, and we both have mommy issues.

I wonder what his dad is like? He never mentioned him. Why did he get into drugs? Why does Dallas hate him so much?

I only started talking to him to make Dallas mad and look where that got me; I'm alone, bleeding in a bathtub, and in desperate need of coke.

Well, that and other substances.

I crave it despite all the warnings I've had about it. I was never one to judge anyone who took them, but people like Dallas and Stella and her friends always did. There was a bipolar boy in elementary school that got hooked on them, he ended up going to rehab, and everybody talked about him as if he purposefully ruined his life - they hated him. He was a cautionary tale, constantly made fun of or brought up in conversation. Dallas was one of the people who would mention him in an negative way - if only he knew the girl claimed to love would get hooked on the same shit.

Despite all the warnings they give kids about drugs, the pure euphoria that comes with using them negates every lecture, assembly, or pamphlet ever given to them. They get called into the gym to sit and listen to some ex-drug addict tell them why it's a bad idea like ten times a year, every time they go to the doctor for a check up the doctor makes sure they aren't on any narcotic, and they're given pencils that say, "Too cool to do drugs." The tea toddling adults don't get that when the physically abused bipolar kid gets his first taste of ecstasy it's like he's found the seventh heaven and no amount of privileged rich dudes can prevent him from craving more.

Nothing can fix me but what was in Harper's box came close. I'm shaking, my head hurts like there's no tomorrow, and I'd give anything to feel like I did before everything went to shit.

I try to stop the blood flow with a loofah. Unfortunately, that does nothing but irritate the cut due to some leftover soap in the netting. Why the fuck won't I stop bleeding?

I lean my head on the wall and sprawl my arms out on the sides of the tub, watching as my foot releases an unnatural amount of blood, and scream. I scream as loud as I can, hoping that someone, anyone will hear me.

Part of me wants Dallas to hear me. I know he won't because he's not a neighbour or anything and there's no reason for him to be on my street, but if he found me then maybe I can apologize to him. I'll bleed out in my bathtub as I beg for him to forgive my horrible behaviour towards him. He will hold my hand just like we used to when we were ten and running towards the park. He would be my friend again and we wouldn't have to deal with petty fights, possible weddings, fucked up family members, and confusing feelings.

I scream until I'm basically bathing in my own blood. So much is coming out and I'm surprised that I haven't passed out yet. My mind is foggy, my muscles hurt, I'm bleeding out, and all I can do is scream in my bathtub in hopes that somebody outside hears me and thinks I'm being murdered and calls the cops. At least then they'll find my body. They'll see the cut in my foot and get the best doctor they have to try and determine the cause of my excessive bleeding.

I suppose, then, that the house will finally be empty when I'm gone. After that, all I need to do is wait for the people I love to eventually die, too. Then we can all be together again.

Finally.