Chapter 3: Suffocating

Abigail indulges in a dangerous game.

Abigail.

 

The cold,
 

T-
he
 metal.
The comfort-
ing hiss slowly
 annihilates craves
for more. The anticipation
 of relief, an appetite for the pulsing
 red. The crimson flow of satin like rivers,
emanating from the one thing keeping me
 from falling apart. To flood the pearly porcelain
with the blood of Satan, the arousing sound of droplets,
 explodes on the hard, glistening surface with ferocity. Breathing
hitching slowly settling into a sigh of satisfaction. The rush of ruby
 red diamonds spills up and over. Spills life. But the picture is not complete.
 A few more rivers, and lines and pictures, until the realm of reality retreats;
 my body has begun to tingle. I am treading in molasses. Fighting to conquer
the dark, thick, road block in my way. It seems to have curtained around me
, the severity of my actions is worse than ever before. I have hit rock bottom,
 and am drowning in red. My body is undergoing intense demolition
 as it fights to rise above this hostile pool, before it floods my
head and I go under.  I begin to feel as though a
 thick tarp is thrown over my head

 and I am not strong enough to tread any longer.
 I can not subdue this going under is  unavoidable;
I have been fully emerged  under and  am
 slowly  suffocating. It  is  the end  of my show
, a  velvet  curtain  drops, and  the  stage is
 black.    

F**k.

 

F**k, f**k, f**k, f**k.
I didn’t mean-F**k.
I’ve really done it now.
 I’ve only been

here once before, and it
landed me in 8 months of
therapy after a scary trip
to the hospital. F**k.

I push myself lower down
towards my body. It is an
eerie picture, I am detached.
I'd never seen so much blood. So I

passed out. It is slightly
patronizing, watching my
lifeless body slowly marinate
in the small yet growing river of blood

composing under my lifeless
structure. I c**k my head
to the side as the door
downstairs slams shut.

Great. Mum’s home. I
know that if I’m caught
in this state once again
I’ll get more than therapy.

I fly down with what little
energy I have. Earnestly
trying to slam myself back
into my broken body. Once,

and I rise back up,
still hovering over myself.
"Abigail! Are you home?"
Her voice gives me the

 

motivation I need, accompanied
with even more energy. I press
my back against the ceiling of the
bathroom and use an

extreme amount of effort
to force myself down onto
my figure and merge my
soul with its host.

 

S**t. Twice, and I’m
still not in one piece.
I feel so ridiculously
incompetent. I just nee-

"Abigail? Are you in there?"
My eyes dart to the door
handle jiggling around.
I place myself down in

one swift motion,
trying more of a gentle
approach. I black out
for a few moments.

I feel my eyelids flutter
open. Yes. My eyelids.
I survey the room and lift
my victimized arm up.

I examine the damage.
The doors handle shakes.
Oh, right. "Y-yeah! Mum!
I’m fine. Sorry. I’m really-"

"Jesus Christ," Oh that's a
new one, guess we're not
Christian anymore, "what
took you so long to

answer me? What’re
you doing in there?"

 

‘I cut myself shaving. It’s
small, just cleaning up.
I’ll be right out in a second,
want to make us some tea?’

This perks her right up,
I notice the difference
of colour in her tone.
"Oh yes! Dear, that sounds

marvelous. I didn’t know
you still liked tea, it’s been
so long. Good thing I picked
up some macaroons today-"

I drown out her babbling as
the cool running water from
the tap grasps all of my
attention. Goosebumps crawl

up my arm, as it begins to
tingle. The blood washes off
quite easily, though the cut is quite
deep and continues bleeding. I sway

back and forth trying to
regain proper consciousness
and recover from the adrenaline
 rush I recently endured.

I instruct my weak limbs to
tightly bandage my battle wound.
i lazily swirl a black
towel around on the white tiles.

I huff and puff at the mess.
Reaching for the bleach under
the counter with my good arm.
It takes me a good 20 minutes,

to clean up majority bloody
mess with no mop and
one functioning arm. I set
aside all evidence of my recent

incident. Throwing on a long
sleeved hoodie and head
 downstairs, My mother looks
almost too excited when I sit

 

down at the table. Thankfully she
was too wrapped up to
notice just how long it took
me to fix a ‘small cut’.

 

                         "Oh dear I made your

old favourite! Chai tea!"
She’s almost shaking with

excitement as she reaches

 

the table with 2 antique tea
cups, neatly placed on
their matching saucers. They
have an arrangement of soft, pink

flowers scattered across their porcelain
surface. The petals are outstretched as though
they are smiling to the sun.
There is a plate of macaroons

 

                    under a doily. It’s been so
long since I’ve actually
sat down with my mum.
With either of my parents

 

 

actually. It’s been 2 years
but none of us are quite
back to our normal selves
just yet. Though we I try.

 

                         Like right now, I'm

trying to meet my mother at
no man's land. Where we lay down
our weapons and decide to make peace.
Though I'm a hypocrite to be talking about

 

laying weapons down.
But this just might be the
first step. The thought almost
makes me laugh. I'm no where

near any kind of 'recovery'.
I'm more damaged than
ever, in the presence of an
insensitive, cynical mother.

"Ah, these were
always Tyler’s favourites."
The name sends a deep
shiver down my spine as

anger rapidly takes over me.
I want to smack the stupid
macaroon out of her hand
and slap that pathetic

smile off her face. I
loudly pick up my tea,
ceramic against ceramic.
They meet in agreement, a magnetic

pull keeping me from hurling it
in my mother's direction. I close my
eyes and compose myself with deep breaths,
slamming it back down onto its saucer.

 

She looks up at me,
perplexed.
"Are you
f*****g kidding me?"

She knows we’re not
at that point yet. Hell,
I don’t know if we ever
will be.

                  
Reminiscing. Thinking and
reliving his past life
doesn’t bring anything but
painful memories.

"Excuse me Abigail?"

We sit in silence for
 a few seconds, just
staring at each other.
I have always wondered

If she knows what she is
 doing and just how wrong
and selfish it is. Obviously
she has needed a lot less

time than anybody else in
this house to grieve her
sons death. The thought
makes me feel sick, disgusted.

The thought of her does the same.
She still wears a look of confusion
and shock. I’ve never spoken
that way too anybody- never

mind my parents-in that
way before. I back
my chair up from its
spot, pick up a macaroon

and hold it in my hand for a moment.
Not even pausing
once to look at her face,
I turn on my heel, push

the chair in and casually
walk towards the staircase.
Keeping my eyes on each step
before me, I start up the stairs

focusing painfully hard
on not crying, waiting
until I reach my room
before the tears begin to fall.

Reviews

[Trigorin]

I won't lie, I absolutely despise playing games with formatting when there seems to be no purpose to it.
Here, it seems like you've built yourself a little tower with your stanzas, but I must ask, why? What does this add to your poem or your interpretation of your poem that would be completely missed if you had formatted this in a normal fashion? I'm genuinely curious.
Your content is good and you tell the story very well, but I seriously question the formatting.