my scars start bleeding again as i'm getting dressed, and i respond how i always do -- grab a wet cloth, scrub away any trace of blood, and wrap it in gauze.
somewhere in the three-hour interim they slip off, and the lines on my arm drip angry red. i sigh, retreating into the bathroom, and take care to avert my gaze as i redress the wound.
someone's eyes snag on the visibly stained bandages, peeking out from under my sleeve. i brush it off.
it's not until i get home and lock the door that the pressure subsides, enough for me to start shaking. no trace of white is left on the wrappings. i drop the keys on the table and lay down to watch tv.
the dialogue traverses through a dull haze and characters dance before my eyes, set to the tune of some vague drama i hadn't kept track of. the pain in my arm worsens.
i just don't know why it had to be now, is all i permit myself.
i redress the wound and go to bed.
the bandages come off again.
i'm sobbing uncontrollably into my blankets. why? i keep asking, to no one in particular. why won't it stop? it's been years, why does it have to come back now, why can't everything just go away... but there is blood all over my sheets and pillows.
in my hysteria i cradle the disfigured arm against my chest, as though comforting a child. i feel the same pain i did then, razor blades splitting the skin, a thousand little traumas that have not healed since.
i don't bother with the bandages anymore. i cry until the tears dry up, and eventually, my consciousness drifts off into the midnight.
when i awake, my eyes are still raw. i just can't bear the thought of dragging myself out of bed to get ready for work. so i don't.
the clock reads 9:00, 10:00, 11:00, and i remain curled into myself, wondering how much blood loss my body can withstand.
the sound of my phone ringing cuts open the dreary silence. probably my boss, i think.
"hey," my friend says. "i thought you were meeting me here? it's already seven thirty."
"sorry..."
"oh, no, it's... um. are you okay? you've been acting kinda weird lately."
i don't know how to answer. the line goes dead with nothing but the sound of each other's breathing. finally, i admit, "not really."
"should i come over?"
"'kay," i choke out.
their eyes widen at the sight of the blood-soaked sheets, but they say nothing; how could you let it get this bad? my mind supplements. not that i have an answer.
instead, my friend disappears for a moment (i'm already wishing they would leave) and returns with the first-aid kit, methodically rifling through its contents before locating the antibiotics.
i jerk my arm away from the flare of pain.
"you're only making things worse," i bite out through barely-restrained tears.
"well, it won't get any better unless you do something about it."
in the same calm, matter-of-fact tone that leaves no room for argument, they convince me to call in as sick for the next few days, and promise to stay me all the while. i don't know what to do except let them.
the tv is on, playing a cheesy soap opera they adore. a woman throws herself against her lover. yes, she says joyously, yes, i will marry you.
my friend's arm is placed comfortingly around my side, and while the pain hasn't disappeared or lessened, it somehow feels more bearable.