'Cuts and Bruises'

'Cuts and Bruises'





It really catches you off guard, how bright hospital lights are. When I woke up, I thought that only Heaven could be this bright and this white. In the silence, though, I hear my heart beat and I know that this couldn’t be Heaven. I’m still alive.

I close my eyes for some time more. I’ve apparently been asleep for a while, maybe a few days. I’m not able to fall back asleep and when I turn my head toward the noise in the hallway, I feel stubble scratching against the pillow. Or maybe it’s the pillow scratching the stubble. I’d shaved before, so that I could look good in the coffin. I’d heard that your hair continues to grow once you’re dead, but I wasn’t sure if that applied to facial hair. Or maybe I’d just hoped that whoever found me would understand that I wanted to leave without a five o’clock shadow. Swanky in Hell, that’d be me.

The stubble versus pillow dilemma was getting uncomfortable on my left cheek and the hallway is empty and dark. So I turn my head and lay on my right cheek. Still stubble. Still scratching. But for now, it doesn’t bother me as much. This new side of the room isn’t much different: white walls, white ceiling, white bed sheets, white pillow, white bandages around an off-white neck. Neck?

Blinking, I raised my hand to wipe away the sleep gunk from my eyes. My hands feel funny; weak. Paraplegic, maybe that’s a good word. As I rub my eyes, I feel something scratch the stubble on my chin. Did the pillow stick to me? No. My wrists were covered in bandages. Understandable, I guess. Just sort of slipped my mind.

The bandages on the other bed are wrapped around her neck. She has dark hair, maybe shoulder length, maybe a bit shorter. It’s straight, and a little jagged, like maybe she cuts it herself. I cut my own hair, too. She’s sleeping. Her breathing is so shallow I can’t even see her chest move. I can barely tell that she’s breathing at all. I watch for a few seconds, looking for her to move. She doesn’t.

“Hey…uh…you. Girl. Hello?” She doesn’t answer. Not even a flutter of her eyelids. “Hey! Are you dead?”

“Are you?” That sort of sarcasm usually turns me on in an odd, masochistic way. She opens her eyes and looks at me like I am a rotten tomato. A talking rotten tomato, laying in bed. Odd. Or maybe just stupid. I can’t imagine tomatoes being considered all that intelligent. She just kind of squints at me. Hospitals are pretty bright.

“Oh-um, no. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you or anything. I just couldn’t tell if you were breathing.” I still can’t tell. It’s a little freaky. Even when she’d spoken, her chest didn’t move. Or at least her stomach didn’t. I try to avoid looking at her chest. I don’t want her to think that I’m some sort of pervert. It didn’t look like she was wearing a bra under the hospital gown. Do hospitals give girls bras while they’re bedridden? Maybe I am a pervert.

“Your chest wasn’t moving.”

“Why are you looking? You some kind of pervert?”

Shit.

But she did smile when she said it. One of those small smiles that girls give when they know they’re making a guy uncomfortable, but whatever it was he was doing didn’t really bother them in the least. A good sign? I have no idea. I look at the bandages on her neck instead. I don’t really consider myself a pervert.

“Telephone cord. Rope tends to break too easily.” She scratches at the bandages.

I can’t think of a reply. I didn’t expect an answer, especially when I didn’t actually ask a question. She starts unwrapping the bandages to reveal a screw thread pattern of bruises around her neck, tightly wound around the base of her jaw. There are stretch marks. The whole scene reminds me of those African women with the stacks of necklaces that make their necks way too long. But these rings were blue and black instead of gold.

“I guess the ceiling fan broke. We live in a trailer. Cheap building materials, y’know.”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Just nod. That’s right. Nod and raise your eyebrows and don’t make eye contact. She still has that subtle little grin stuck to her chin. I look at the bruises on her neck, instead. She’s too pretty to be hanging herself. Especially with telephone cord. A silk scarf would’ve been more suitable. Of course, maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know this girl. Maybe hanging herself with a noose made of condoms is more her style. You never know. Gutter-slut bungee jump.

“I’m sorry, my name is Renee.” And suddenly there’s this dainty little hand reaching across the chasm between our beds. The tiles at the bottom are actually speckled, not pure white like I’d thought at first. Her fingers are long and embarrassingly graceful. Pale enough to match the sheets. She has chipped fingernail paint on. Black on every finger except the thumb. Some say the thumb doesn’t count as a finger. Maybe she thinks that way and doesn’t paint it because painting a non-finger with fingernail polish is a ‘misappropriation of product intent’ or some jargon like that. But what about toes? I look. Her toes aren’t painted. She takes labels on bottles way too literally.

Her hand is still there and she’s looking at me looking at her fingers and her toes and her eyes don’t ask a single question. Amazing. I reach forward to return the handshake. She throttles the fish that my hand has become. I try as hard as I can to get a grip, but my fingers are nearly limp. I can feel them just fine. Her skin is really smooth. I just wish I could squeeze back.

Apparently the confusion I feel is visible, because she shifts her hand and touches the bandages on my wrist. “I hear, when you do it right, it severs most of the tendons in the wrist and lower forearm. Takes weeks or months to get your strength back.” She smiles a little bit wider, biting her lip slightly. “Looks like you’ve got a period of celibacy ahead of you,” she whispers and shows me that it is indeed possible to wink without actually closing an eye. It’s like a sparkle or a glint that goes along with a smirk.

I won’t lie. I don’t have a girlfriend. “I’ll be ok, I promise,” I reply, hopefully sounding less put off than I am. This girl with the strangled neck has caught me more off guard than the hospital brights ever could.

Feeling awkward, I try to pull my hand back as politely as possible, but she grabs a tighter hold and spins herself around to sit up on the edge of her bed. Her hospital gown hikes halfway up her thigh. I look away in an effort to be respectful, but I’m running out of places to look. She’s got freckles above her knee and they are enough to make me blush. She leans forward.

“Why did you do it?” Oh my God, a cat just died. She’s slaughtering felines left and right with that look in her eyes. She’s hungry to know. She starving for an answer, as though my motivation for punching out early is the answer to all her questions and problems in life; I am her suicidal messiah. If she bites her lip any harder, it’s going to bleed. I can’t believe her lips are that color naturally. No lipstick needed.

“I was…already alone.”

She smiles. I just look at the floor.

Leaning forward, she kisses me.

“Do you still want to die?”