Little Shots of Madness: Forty One
I barely make it to the toilet. I shut and lock the door behind me.
My heart is beating fast. Too fast. My senses are all overloaded. Intense pressure threatening to explode my eyes right out of my skull. Cold sweat streams down my back in rivers.
The ground beneath my feet feels off-kilter. Like the world is swaying to and fro.
I splash cold water on my face. Wipe the nape of my neck with it.
I slap myself a few times. Hard.
I look into the mirror. A thing I have intentionally avoided since walking in. I always avoid mirrors.
I don’t just hate what I see. I hate everything that has to do with what I am seeing. The anger quickly builds into immense and intensely blinding rage, lightning fast.
Without thinking I lash out explosively. The silence of that basement bathroom broken by a blood curdling, mad scream followed by three quick, blunt thumps, and the corresponding crunching and falling pieces of glass.
Heaving, I grab onto the sink and stare at my fractured reflection in the fragments of mirror that remain in their place. Blood collecting on the white floor beside the sink, as it streams off my torn up hand.
I flex my fingers outwards and clench my fist tightly. A small, sick pleasure emanates in the depths of me as I feel the sharp, intense pain of the bits of mirror embedded in my fist.
Recomposed. I wash up. Removing what I can.
Unbeknown to me, a small piece will remain for months. Causing me immense pain until I manage to cut it out of me.
That comes later, though.
For now. We re-enter the fray. As if nothing ever happened.
People will ask about the cuts. I will say something different every time. I tell them anything but the truth. Because, somehow, the truth seems more outlandish than any lie I can spin.