Water Is Prettier Than Blood

A little girl cries, her tears flowing with the river she sits beside. Green hills roll out for as far as the eye can see, so gently, so indefinitely, melting into a horizon. The little girl holds a sharp stone, she points it against her wrist. She takes the stone and she cuts, with one fine, momentous, horrific jerk. She cries out, loud. She wants the world to here her pain. No one responds, but the birds. They chirp on and on. The girl cuts again.

Blood is not as pretty as water. Blood does not flow gently like water. No, blood is ugly. It is a recurring symbol of a pain, that no one can truly escape. However, to the girl, the blood means something more. The crimson red coagulant is but a reminder of what happens to those that are broken. It reminds her that she is unhappy, that her life is painful, for no inherent reason. The blood is her payment to the darkness that so surrounds her existence. Letting the blood run loose is her way of  taking the pain that so surrounds her and turning it real. It is also her way of punishing herself for her faults, when no one else would.

The sky soon turns red. The girl walks over to the shimmering river and washes her arm. Red water, although in the darkening sky it is colorless. She lies down on her back and winces. For the first time the entire day she feels the pain. Tears swell up in her eyes. She does not cry fervently like earlier. She does not shout out for someone to come save her from her destructive self. Instead, she muffles her face into the thick grass and sobs. She sobs deeply, as if she could shake the earth with her sorrow. Only her body begins to tremble. An earthquake of the mind commences.

A father comes looking for his daughter. His face contorted by fear. He looks out into the night and all he sees is darkness. Worry begins to cause him to panic. Where is she? That girl. The love of his life. The tulip in his grass meadow. The sunshine in his shady heart. Where could Elizabeth be? He begins to shout. He beats his chest until it hurts. He shouts some more.

The girl hears her father shouting. His tone is strong and demanding, but to her it sounds more like the whimpering of a lost puppy. Sadness persists, but now guilt overtakes her. She looks at her bloody wrist and presses down on the freshest wound. Hoping, with all her heart, that her pain would make up for the hurt she caused her father. She gets up, and pulls her white cotton shirt over her arm. She cannot see in the dark, but it begins to stain red. She runs.

The father see his daughter. She looks like a ghost, lingering on a world that she cannot escape. He runs over and they embrace. The father notices that the girl feels weak. He also notices that where her left arm wrapped around him is moist. Nevertheless, he picks up the girl as if she were two and not eleven and takes her inside. They do not speak, but they grasp each other's hands, tightly.

In their house are two wooden chairs. These chairs face an unlit fireplace, and behind them is a worn down couch. The father sits her down in one chair and sits in the other.  As soon as the girl sits, he notices the blood staining the wrist of her shirt. For a moment he looks at his tulip in shock, but then he drifts off to face the unlit fireplace. He begins to cry. His face remains fixed on the fireplace, but tears flow free. The girl thinks of the river. Then, she thinks of her guilt.

“Dad, I didn't mean to”. She speaks weakly.

              “My tulip?” He asks, his voice breaking by the end of the sentence,

              “I didn't mean to hurt you”.

The father stands for a moment. He looks down at his daughter. She looks as small as he feels. He gets down on his knees and engulfs the girl into a hug. He holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her. He wishes not to fray the gently petals of his luxuriant flower. The hug is deep, the hug is filled with longing. A longing to understand. A longing to change reality.

The father speaks now, his nose running, and his voice trembling like his legs. “You have never hurt me…” He takes a breath in “You have only hurt yourself” he begins to tear up. He falls onto his knees. “I can't see you like this...You're just a girl… You're my girl…. You're my life. I need my tulip. Dont… dont… dont … not anymore… please”.

The girl stands up too, but now she isn't crying. Now she stands taller than her father, who is  crumpled on his knees. She leans in close to him “I'm not gonna do it anymore daddy. I'm not gonna scare you anymore. If mom was here… she wouldn't want it… I love you daddy”. She leans in and kisses her father on his forehead.

She sits down next to her father. She leans in close to him, trying to absorb his heat. Eventually, her father gets up and quickly lights a fire. Its warm glow is enticing. Outside, it begins to rain. The sound of rain hitting against the roof is loud. Water leaks from a crack in the ceiling and a droplet falls down. It splatters on the girl's wounds. And then another droplet falls. And another. And another. Until all the excess blood is washed away. Water truly is a lot more pretty than blood, after all.

Reviews

[ScottB]

Deep incredible story. Beautiful wording and stunning flow. My only down side is to remember your apostrophe in the word "don't".That mistake is something that always annoys me, but the rest of your story was so incredible that I didn't really even care.

[Chris]

Thanks so much, and Ill try to get better at making sure I put apostrophes in.