My eyes close, as fucking always. I imagine it’s Delilah’s hand in mine despite the stiffness in the fingers. “I miss you, pretty girl. One thousand, one hundred, and eighty-nine days since I’ve held your hand. If I knew, I would have danced with you for longer. I would have told you how much I loved you.”
There’s resistance as I squeeze the hand, forcing me to look at it. The cut edge exposes their bones, the sinewy tendons, and browning meat from the hot water. I turn off the faucet then pat the limb dry for the next part of my ritual. I can’t let go of it as I empty my pockets on the vanity, taking the blade from the back of my phone case, before carefully drawing the lines from Delilah’s sheet music. The notes are harder with the rigid end of the blade. I tilt my head to make sure they’re distinguishable on the stave. The composition is one she would obsess over, rewriting it over and over again while I laid in her bed. I’ve never heard it, but I carry it with me everywhere I go.
Sasha has her masks; I have my protective charm.
Once I’ve finished scoring the skin, I gently lay the arm on over the dry sink before plugging it. The medical kit has a bottle filled with the last thing I need before removing the flesh and I carefully squeeze the deep yellowish-brown liquid over the scored skin, staining it so the scoring stands out. It’s not stained enough, so I wash the limb with the run-off until I’m satisfied with the hue. Then, it’s time for the last part.
Taking the clean knife free from any blood, filth, or sins, I carefully puncture the flesh through the exposed end of the limb to separate the skin. I cut it in long strips before placing the bloodied side on a towel to soak up the moisture before I carefully roll the strips to make a rose. Once it’s done, I drop the rotting rose from my back pocket in the sink, the curled edges slowly soaking up the liquid.
Like every other time I’ve been forced to stop moving, the urges rear their head. I grab the medical kit and carefully closethe door, quickly sitting with my back against it in case she decides to look for me.
Everything inside the leather pouch is a dream and a nightmare. Scalpels, replacement blades, sterilizing solution that will burn in the best possible way. I’m like a child on Christmas as I carefully unwrap the scalpel, then myself. Lowering my pants to my knees, I test my nerves on my thighs to find the most impactful point. Over the years, I’ve chased this high too many times. It’s becoming more difficult to feel the full effects. The side of my knee is the newest spot, euphoria flooding my body as the scalpel smoothly parts my skin.
I make one line with a promise.
One day I won’t talk to myself. I won’t be so fucking lonely I only have the option to talk to myself.
Another line.
One day, I’ll have something to show for all the misery.
Another line.
One day, I won’t just exist.
Another line.
One day, I’ll stop chasing the distraction, death and torture the roses provide.
Another line.
One day, I’ll be free to do whatever the fuck I want.
Another line.
One day, I’ll be someone Delilah doesn’t hate.
Another line.
One day, I’ll stop hurting her.
Another line.
One day, I’ll look back, laughing without it turning into tears.
Another line.
One day, I won’t have a voice in the back of my head, telling me I should die.
Another line.
One day, I’ll give in to that thought.
A tremor takes over my hand as I blink through my tear-blurred lashes. My tears mix with a pained laugh as I read what’s on my skin, “Koukla mou.”
I’ve been dead for so long?—
—I’m afraid of being around other people.
