Thursday 24 September 2009

The Prologue

There is blood everywhere – swirling and dripping, gushing, painting. My skin is pink, white, and pale, stained. The flesh is everywhere – its cut – help – help me! I’m spinning I think I’m dying. There’s yellow sick pulsing and exploding and coughing. I’m coughing because I can’t breathe but if they find the blood its over – Rachel! – I can’t breathe but if you wash with water it’s all gone. I flush the razors down. Someone’s skin is in the blades. I know her – she died. No, that’s not right but the towels were wet. I just want to throw up, projectile vomit everywhere, cover those walls with the bile that I pick at under my nails and sweat in the sheets. STOP. Just stop. Don’t touch me – NO. I didn't do it but let me be sick. Just let me be so sick that I puke everything. Cough it all up and feel my heart pinch as I deplete and cry. Let me feel the powders from the pills where I swallowed them, hiding them beneath my tongue until they held my throat up to the ceiling. You smiled and checked my wrists that never bled until you taught me how to bleed on the inside. The blood on the walls is everywhere. It smells like salty syrup and the sea. Your hand prints are everywhere – Why were you there Rachel? – A cup of water won’t do anything. Stop. I’m screaming – look at me! No one looked at me. Why can’t I cough this out, shake it out. I’m cold and shaking. Please don’t hurt me. Get rid of the razors. The blades are small, flushable. Cup your hands and go upstairs. I’ll stay with her – clean clean clean. Sanitize. You are my worst fear – I pick at my skin to feel you. Your pulse will be in mine. I didn't let you into my body – tried to save you and I don’t even know you – get out of me – bleed it out, bleed it out – you bled out. I’m bleeding but I’m clean. I couldn't clean you. I’m exhausted. I’m so tired of telling you all this. You won’t listen. We tell ourselves stories in order to live. Joan Didion said that we tell ourselves stories in order to live.

-- Rachel. Rachel. You’re here now.

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the face. He blocked the light so he talked in the dark. Rachel. I looked at him and tried to focus my eyes. The hot light glowed and blurred his edges. His facial hair prickled against the spot, fracturing it all to pieces. I couldn't see anything clearly since it happened. It was Mr. Nields. I know this man, I thought. He kept saying, “You’re here now.” I could hear the sounds and understand the words. But that was it. This moment is happening. Right now. This moment is happening. The actors sat amongst black blocks and platforms. They were a tableau draped like curtains with scripts for tassels and braided ropes. Rachel –

Just listen to me. Just shut up and listen to me. We are actors and kids but we are real characters – poised and posed in between someone else’s words. We are locked in that narrative's meaning. No – just listen to me. I will tell this story until you listen to me.

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