Free Flow 16: Expert from a novel I’ll never write (5)


I sit on the floor of the bathroom, watching the blood drip down my arm. Bright red stains against a polished white floor, such contrast. My eyes are fixated on the spot, I zone in and put of reality.

I watch the blood drip, until finally it starts to clot, dries on my skin instead of gliding off. I look at the cuts, jagged and angry, and yet I’m so calm right now.

Whatever was building up inside me before is now caked on the length of my forearm.

I stand, run my arm under warm water and rinse away the stains, grab gauze from under the sink and press them agasint the gashes in my flesh. These will heal, but the real wounds run deeper.

I turn my attention to the stains on the floor,  careless. I do by best to wash them away with bleach and a old wash cloth, then cover it with a rug.

I lower myself on top of the toilet and servey the area. If this where a sitcom there would be little sparkle points followed by a *ting*; no sign of my meltdown.

I pull my sleeves down and exit the bathroom, the house still quiet. I fold my arms across my chest and walk slowly back to my room. I lock the door when I’m inside and pull my laptop onto my bed.

Browsing the web might help a little, but I need something more engaging to distract myself. I log on to messenger with little hope. I scan my contacts until I come across Marcus, a glowing green bubble next to his name.

I click on his name and start typing.

>You awake..?

I chew on my thumb as I wait for a reply, glance over at the clock. [3:12] He probably just left his computer on; I get weird when I’m like this, should just close my eyes and hope sleep takes over.


>What’s up?

>Can’t Sleep..

To put it lightly.(332 words)


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