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Four Red Lines
zprymantis@smilingwithteeth.com
She is awake at 3 AM. Unable to sleep, thinking about the day
that lies ahead. Staring into the darkness, she imagines the coming
day filled with moments when she will have to hide her feelings,
face trauma without emotion, be strong. She needs to cry now,
here in the safety of the darkness, alone. She needs to feel pain,
intense, radiating through her like the stroke of a cane.
She stares cold, void of feeling, expressionless at the meager
lights from the alarm clock. She knows what she must do. She must
open a memory. She needs to release the tears.
Searching her many childhood memories, some happy, many sad she
finds one that contains a secret stash of pain. She was twelve...
Daddy's hands clenched in clumsy uselessness. His fingers curled,
wrists pressed together, in his attempt to stop the flow of blood.
His face pale and regretful, hers devoid of feeling. Detached
from the moment, they discuss the strategy of removing the towels
and bandaging the wounds. She unwraps the makeshift bandages,
the dishtowels stained, pressed between his wrists. She peels
back the terry cloth and fresh blood appears. Four red lines on
each lower palm. He explains as she wraps the clean gauze, he
never meant to really leave her here alone, it was a cry for help,
he aimed higher then the artery, did she believe him? Yes.
The memory became the moment.
The pain struck then, as in the darkness of her adult bedroom
she reached up to trace her finger four times along her own wrists.
A memory as swift as a stroke from the cane, spreading through
her body in a warm flash, intense, compelling, unbearable. She
cries at last.
As the pain subsides she transports her mind again to the memory.
He had told her he was sorry, he hated to ask, he knew she was
afraid. She needed to remove the blood, so her mother wouldn't
have to do it, so her brother wouldn't have to see. He couldn't
climb the stairs again. She smiles reassurance and said she didn't
mind, his good girl. She saw again the upstairs hall. Walked past
her childhood room. The razor blade waiting for her in the bathtub.
Four lines of red streaked toward the drain. Rinsing down the
red marks, gathering the towels for disposal, erasing the scene.
She holds the blade by the very tip, horrified, fascinated, as
if it could jump and bite her.
She feels the pain in the darkness alone, another hot flash, then
spreading through her in a slow sickening burn. Her face silently
crying out for mercy, the tears spilling out again.
The quiet aftermath, the hazy glow of submission to her past.
Like a child fascinated with puddles she reaches through the darkness
to touch her tears. Drawing the moisture down her cheeks, lines
of salty water, war paint, a mask. A small smile of contentment
as she sucks the tears from her fingers.
She turns to sleep on her belly, her body satisfied and aching,
her mind content. She will be able to face the day ahead without
emotion, strong, silent, punished. No one can see the four red
cane marks that she envisions laddered across her bottom, yet
they are surely there.
© 2000 by zprymantis@smilingwithteeth.com, not to be reposted or distributed
without permission
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