Tears of Blood

It was midnight and the indifferent illuminations of the TV cast blue and gray shadows about Byron’s room. He was on his bed staring placidly at the little box which seemed to provide him with nothing but the canned noise of the society he loathed. Its pop culture and catch phrases, so glib and moronic, seemed to pass by the screen and speakers in effortless repetition. Just the thought was maddening. Byron had had another one of his days at school, people in his way, people staring, people whispering behind his back. He was sick of it all! Elizabeth hadn’t been around in a few days and he was enjoying the small liberation of never having to offend someone he loved with every movement.

His shackles cast he moved onto his little stall bathroom adjoining his room. The house at one time was split into several hotel-like apartments and most of the rooms had these little half bathrooms. He stared into the mirror at his own haggard figure glaring back at him. Black bags had formed under his eyes that were so dark he almost appeared to have been punched. His mouth was drawn in a permanent scowl that had crinkled his face into little defined and precise lines. His face was sprouting stubble for he didn’t care enough about his own appearance to shave for the past week and his torn and tawdry T-shirt lay bedraggled and worn over his shoulders. He sat for what seemed and eternity and just stared back into those reflective eyes, that illusion the mirror gave him. Thoughts of his day flashed through his head like some sort of macabre string of movie clips playing in a loop. He got lost staring into the void and seeing nothing but all the thoughts that had hounded and haunted him for too long to remember.

Finally when he could take it no longer he sat standing over the sink and looked down at the shiny razor blade beckoning to him. It had become a hated friend of his stained with the blood of previous battles. He picked it up and examined it closely to see what it was that kept bringing him back. It seemed an ordinary enough object. He just didn’t understand its dark pull, its demonic control over him. It glinted in the dim light of the bathroom, pulling his hand toward it like a magnet. He could not stop now; that was out of the question. No matter how much his mind and his spirit screamed not to do it he couldn’t help himself. Yes, today he needed more then a little scratch, today he wanted it to bleed, and bleed in rivers. Nothing could quench this desire. He pressed the razor's cold uncaring metal to his skin and started to slowly and forcefully pull it across his arm. His lower lip quivered as he winced at the pain, his eyes rolling back in his head. As the blood flowed out of the wound it dripped into the sink below, spiraling in the water and washing down the drain in a grotesque parade of diluted reds and pink. He watched as it dripped and felt the release, that spring of energy that seemed to flow out with his blood. He likened the feeling to a demon and thought of his cuttings as some sort of metaphorical and ritualistic release of these primitive monsters that infested his soul. He was calm now as he delicately wiped the remaining blood off with a piece of toilet paper. Every muscle in his body was relaxed. He felt at ease and at peace without tonight’s demon.

Slinking back off into the darkness of his room he collapsed in his bed with a heavy sigh and let the warmth of his blankets surround him. He closed his eyes and gave up his battle. Sleep came easily as he drifted off into unconsciousness.