"Numb."
After a relationship break-up 9 1/2 or so years ago, I sank deep. Lost track of everything, I was a mess. Even lost track of writing. But there came a point when what's important periscoped up out of my personal hell; a personal hell most of us have experienced in our own, special, self-annihilating way. I slowly started writing short stories again. Sure, they were all constructed around my shattered mindset at that time, but not in always expected ways. This one, though, the second story--a flash piece, as noted in the title--was along the lines one would expect after going through the mental and physical grinder. This one bites hard. I wrote a lot more about it in another blog post. So, without further adieu...
***
Numb
by John Claude Smith
He feels nothing: numb, empty…
He resorts to
cutting himself as an exercise in sensation, in trying to feel something at a
time when he feels nothing.
But even that does
not break through.
He still feels
nothing.
Acquiring a
scalpel was easy, Tammy works at the clinic.
She brought one to him without questions. He took it from her two days ago and closed
the door before she had the opportunity to invite herself in or intrude in any
other way.
He did not care
about how rude it came off.
He does not care
about much of anything.
But her. Alicia.
The woman he loves.
The woman who left
him.
(How could she
leave me? How could she give up on
us? The thoughts roll by in his head
like a never ending freight train, its self-destructive cargo branded in
torturous repetition.)
He places the
scalpel against his naked chest, pressing hard.
The blade digs deep, blood streaming over his abdomen.
Nothing.
He grunts from the
effort as he pulls the blade down. The
incision is deep, opening his insides to the world.
Not quite.
It opens him, but
will require the effort of his bare hands to continue the process.
Still, he is numb.
He sets the
scalpel down and thrusts his fingers into the fresh wound. Pulling with supreme effort, he pries his
chest wide open. Muscles and bones are
wrenched from their usual homes, tearing and breaking.
He stops, sucks in
a weary breath, and gazes into the moist, red cavity.
He jostles things,
moves them about, rearranging the internal in ways that give him access to his
goal.
The thick muscle’s
rhythm is consistent, even though this more extreme exercise would normally
render one dead.
He feels dead
inside already.
He reaches in with
both hands, scalpel severing arteries, clean cuts that lack precision yet serve
their purpose. Within minutes, he holds
the beating heart in his hands.
Still, he feels
nothing.
Well, what is the
point of it all, then?
(He remembers how she used to put her hand on
his chest, palm down, feeling the love, their bond, sensing the rightness of it
all, staring intensely into each other’s eyes—enraptured--we are one…and her
cherishing it, him as well, so close, so close…“Let me drown in you,” she would
say, and he would plead, “Let’s drown in us, please”…and both of them meaning
it, unconditionally, without fear because this is what people live for in the
first place!)
(Drowning now: drowning,
flailing, sinking…)
He walks calmly to
the car and starts it up, pulling out of the parking lot. The night is deep and uncaring. Nobody notices because at least other people
can sleep.
He hasn’t slept in
weeks.
He drives to where
she lives. Sitting in the car, he stares
at the apartment where she rents a room.
He scribbles a
note on a piece of paper and exits the car.
He places the
still beating heart at the foot of the door with the note.
No reason to knock
or ring the doorbell; let her sleep. Let
them all sleep.
Maybe someday he
will sleep again as well…
He rereads the
note: Since you own my heart, you might
as well have it.
Unhappy and
exhausted, he leaves, his head still reeling as the freight train rolls
by.
Perhaps this
gesture will help her to understand.
Perhaps she will
just scream.
Numb, he drives
alone into the deep and uncaring night…
***
Cheerful, eh?
Well, writing got me through that, as it does through so much more. Love does, too, after all is said and done and perhaps makes the pain make sense. Well, not sure about that. but...
:-)
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