In the shower this morning I noticed a bruise on my arm that I am almost certain was not there the night before. I am not surprised that it happened. I can’t get used to the size of the bed. I keep expecting to bump into you. But of course you are gone and it is my fault.
Work was hell today. I bought a bottle on the way home and got drunk enough to face the enormity of the bed.
As I dressed today I noticed a three inch scratch on my upper thigh. It was red but had had not broken the skin. It reminded of those nights of kissing and scratching and making the bed the size of a postage stamp.
I miss you.
Today on the way home I suddenly realized that you were never coming back. I barely resisted the urge to pull into oncoming traffic.
I am sorry.
I was awoken by pain shooting through the third finger on my left hand. It feels broken. I think I might understand what is happening. I am being punished. The finger went purple in the afternoon. Now as I sit here with my drink it is a soft yellow and reminds me of that time you filled the car with daffodils.
I am being punished.
I deserve it.
This morning’s damage, a black eye, six bruises ringed around my chest and a cut on my forehead.
Oh and three fingernails torn off.
I have stopped going to work. I am sick of making excuses for the damage and why I am not going to see a doctor or casualty. I know they cannot heal me. I bought some wine and cheese. That really smelly stuff you hated. I can’t find the cheese knife so I just bite pieces off and eat them.
Woke up choking.
I had something that tasted like old pennies and shoe leather in my mouth. I staggered to the bathroom and spat it into the toilet. I saw the blood on my lips in the shaving mirror.
I have a jagged hole in arm around an inch and a half in diameter. I looked into the toilet bowl. I flushed but it did not go down.
The bleeding stopped around three in the afternoon. I put the thing from the toilet bowl in a freezer bag. Then for some reason I put it in the freezer. I was confronted by a ham and pineapple pizza. I hate pineapple. You loved it. Well you probably still do love it. But you don’t love me.
Found the cheese knife. It was sticking out of my chest this morning. There is something wet and throbbing next to it. It is red. It hurt too much to pull the knife out so I just lied there. I thought about the last words you said to me.
“I love you but I won’t stay here and watch you pull yourself to pieces”
I am not sure how long I have been here but the knife doesn’t hurt anymore.
Nothing hurts now.
Gary Priest writes short fiction and poetry both of which have been published online and in print. He lives in the UK at the end of a dead-end road, which may explain everything.