Pain
I don't know how long it was before I realized that the front door was open to the cold December air. After returning home from the grocery store, I'd just sat on the couch, not really thinking of anything. In fact, I couldn't really remember most of the day. It was late afternoon when I realized that the dull ache in my bones was not the usual one, but a product of the cold, and the clicking sound wasn't the ticking of the clock but the chattering of my teeth. The numbness itself didn't really bother me. I wished it could be more complete. However, Charlie would be sure to notice the drop in temperature, and I didn't want to bother him. I turned up the heater, but not so much that it was any louder than normal. It would be an hour before Charlie got home and I felt sure that my cooking, combined with the heater, would warm the house up.
Stew was on the menu tonight. I'd chosen it because I thought perhaps chopping up vegetables would keep my mind occupied. Too late, I realized my mistake. As I slipped into the repetitive motion, my mind began to wander over today's events. Jessica had seemed content to ignore me at lunch. Angela, however, had spent the whole half hour trying to talk to me. My contentment obviously wasn't good enough. I acknowledged to myself that my acting had never really been up to par as my thoughts skittered away from why I was acting content. Everyday was just another day, repetitive like the chopping of the knife. I was completely numb to my surroundings, and perhaps this was the reason for my unconvincing display of being okay.
It was a strange feeling in my finger that pulled me out of my reverie. Looking down, I found the paring knife nestled between two pieces of the skin on my finger and blood pouring over the newly cut vegetables on the countertop. Instead of acting quickly as I knew I should, I stopped to examine the cut, a splash of color in my dead world. It was bleeding more than it should. Oddly masochistic, I stared at the red stuff oozing from my severed fingertip, waiting for the sickness to come.
When it did come, it wasn't nausea, but lightheadedness. A few minutes later, I found myself sitting on the floor with blood covering my clothes and still pouring from my damaged hand onto the linoleum floor of Charlie's kitchen. The sound of a door told me Charlie was home. He didn't bother announcing his presence these days. More often than not, I was asleep or too busy staring into space to hear my name being called. But Charlie took one look at the sight on the kitchen floor and froze. I'm not sure what happened next, but I found myself in the cruiser with Charlie driving me to the hospital.
His worried questions bounced around the cab, but I couldn't focus on them. My only focus point was the smear of red staining the dish towel Charlie must have wrapped around my hand before dragging me to the car. Blood is a funny thing, meaningful I guess you could say. I thought about all the significance it held in my life. All the strange sensations it had caused. Could it really taste good? Was it possible that, flowing through my veins and spilling carelessly across the car seat, was a perfect ambrosia that could let me live forever? Did I want to live forever? I thought about tasting it. Just a simple lick of the finger could answer all questions. I'd just inclined my head when one of Charlie's unheard questions broke into my subconscious.
"Of course this wasn't on purpose," I answered him, horrified despite my monotonous tone. "Why would you think that?"
"I don't know, I just thought..." Charlie's voice broke and he fell silent.
"Dad," I began, wondering how to convince him that this accident was caused by my wondering mind and not a suicide attempt.
"Don't worry about it, Bella. You just haven't been yourself lately. I don't know what to do to make it better, and for a moment I thought maybe I had let you down in the worst way possible." Charlie stopped talking and concentrated more on the driving, which was almost done. It was easy to see that desperation was what made him share his feeling like this. He wasn't usually this expressive.
I didn't pay anymore attention to his look, however. I was in pain. Not in my finger, but all over my body. Raging, firey, burning guilt made my eyes blur and my stomach churn as the sight of blood usually did. I'd hurt Charlie. I knew I was falling apart, but never had anything been less Charlie's fault. Blinking stinging tears out of my eyes, I tried to pull together my resolve. I couldn't let Charlie take the fall for my own insignificance. I clearly wasn't good enough, but Charlie should never feel that way about himself.
Self control won out over the urge to cry. Throughout my hospital visit, I managed to hold my emotions in check. It wasn't that hard, because I did it everday. In an odd, detached sort of way I felt the pulling of my skin as the stitches pulled the wound closed. Unwillingly I remembered the last time I'd had to get stitches. This time I forced myself to watch. The morphine moved the pain. It didn't really take it away, only made it someone else's. Maybe that's why it was easier to watch.
It wasn't until that night in my room, when the morphine ran out, that I let myself go. After getting home from the hospital, I'd muttered something to Charlie about being exhausted. In my room, I collapsed on my bed, grateful that the chance to break down was near. It happened suddenly, like an unseen switch had turned on the pain in my finger, and then I let the guilt come back. It mingled with the pain in my finger, and the sorrow that tore me apart when I couldn't hold it in. Together they fiilled and shaped my body until all I was was an outlet for crushed hopes and dreams. I rode the waves of my pain until I cried myself to sleep.
