Bleed

Kevin has cut his hand, and it’s really bleeding, pooling into the sink as the water cascades onto his fingers from the kitchen faucet. He’s not panicked though, it’s just stinging as he holds it underneath the spout; the rapids rush, masking the sides of his fingers, and he can barely see the wound, just the streaks of red that ruddle the water. It’s rather mesmerizing though, watching the water pass, millions of harmonized droplets falling at once, synchronizing as it pours, and Kevin forgets he’s even wounded, for a moment.

Gazing at the hand soap dispenser that sits on the edge of the sink, Kevin fixates on the buoyant sun sticker affixed to the front of the bottle inscribed with  “Antibacterial” in bubble letters; the first three letters darkened with dampness, making “bacterial” most discernible; he notices its corner curled, peeling from moisture, until his focus blurs, and for some reason, he can feel the sunlight from the SoftSoap label tingling down his neck. The water runs into the basin, splashing into the rectangular vessel, the spattering sounds of an unstable stream against a hollowed container creates a soothing aura, like soft falling rain as Kevin leans over the sink, idling, holding his hand under the water. And it’s only a mild burning when his hand is under the running faucet, it’s livable, Kevin thinks, watching as the viscous trail of blood swirls into the drain; the fusion of red liquid with the silver stainless-steel surface creates a lustrous river into the abyss, and he continues staring because he’s not sure what to do; he’s never been this hurt before or at least since his divorce.

Catherine would have probably wrapped his hand up or something, maybe a tourniquet, or treated the area with ointment, a special Neurosporene or some effective topical solution, he imagines. She’d probably tell him to elevate it, hold it at a certain angle to slow the bleed, position his arm to ease the ache, something smart, he thinks, since she’s an ER nurse. And he knows he needs to assess the damage first, but he’s not ready to look at it yet, just like the trauma festering in his subconscious. He’d rather cover the wound, like repressing memories and burying disappointments, so he tears off several pieces of paper towel from the attached holder underneath the kitchen cabinet. Casing his hand with a triple-ply cloth, his fingers swathed into the center of the bunch, the blood soaks the thick pad in seconds; it’s a vivid red hue just like the matching sweaters his parents used to wear every year at the holiday parties when he was a kid, eliciting a deep nostalgia, which hurts even more than his laceration.

It’s been exactly 72 months ago that he and Catherine signed their divorce papers after 8 years of marriage and his one infidelity, which she discovered by extemporaneously checking his DMs. And they split everything down the middle, agreeing to no alimony or litigation since they didn’t have children; his Tinder fling with LisaFitt292 dying out quicker than a lit sparkler, and Catherine’s next boyfriend becoming her soulmate. But that’s not why Kevin cut his hand, and it’s not because he accidentally discovered Catherine just gave birth to her first child despite not being able to conceive while they were together, no, it was an accident, really, a careless incident how he slashed his hand; he’s been stabbing a cardboard box in his living room for a month now, right where his television used to be before he kicked the screen in after a visceral outburst. Every time he feels stressed, ready to implode or lash out, he picks up a serrated knife with a forceful grip and rams it into the paper-based carton, relishing its pop and give, providing instant, temporary gratification. Only this time when Kevin jabbed the knife with his sweaty, tensed palm, his hand slipped, gliding down over the keen blade, severing his fingers when he connected.

Unraveling the entirety of the paper towel roll to bandage his hand, discarding the soiled clump into the sink, an intense warming continues trickling down his limbs as pools of perspiration permeate from his underarms and brow; the sharp rigor renders Kevin ambivalent as he holds his hand, swaying from side to side, gasping with stuttering breaths. He really should find a better stress reliever, he knows, and he’s tried meditation, but he can’t bear the silence or stillness with his mind, never fully engaging in the exercise, welcoming random contemplations instead, like wondering where he put his birth certificate, as well as conjuring up past encounters, like the road rage incident he experienced 5 years ago where some guy with a ponytail told him to “Fuck off” for tailgating after they pulled up next to each other at a traffic light. He’s even tried a gratitude journal, being thankful for the longest time for his parents still being around and his good-paying job staying secure, but sooner or later people get cancer and die, corporations push out people in their 40s, and nothing lasts forever. He’s thinking he should probably call someone, since he’s in no position to drive himself to the hospital, but he’s alienated himself from everyone he’s ever known, despite still watching their stories on Instagram, so he’s going to have to settle on the emergency service dispatcher, hoping she’s cordial.

The bloodied cutter still lays on the carpet over in the living area, dropped like a murder weapon, leading a track of crimson spots all the way to the sink, and Kevin knows he should really try to dab the spots with warm water before they stain his beige cut pile, but he’s becoming weak in the legs and starting to freak and not because he’s dizzy and can’t feel his fingers or make a fist, no, he’s more alarmed with his thoughts; he’s more concerned about possibly making another bad decision, like picking up the abandoned knife and gashing his other wrist to finally silence the rumination and quiet his inner critic. It’s not far-fetched and not because depression runs in his family, no, he’s been seeing the signs it’s time to exit for a while now, like how he seems to catch every red light and always fucking picks the slowest checkout line in the grocery store or how he always seems to snag his shirt or pants on something when he’s running late, yanking him with inconvenience. And he knows it’s not as easy as 13 Reasons Why portrays it on Netflix, he knows to bleed out requires extreme force to create a deep enough injury, a real commitment, something he’s been afraid of his entire life.

Leaning against his kitchen cabinets, Kevin slides down, acquiescing to gravity, his back thumping on each drawer handle and knob until he sinks to the floor; his hand still submerged in a packet of towels; his eyes weighing with each lethargic blink as the outgoing dial tone hums, vibrating on the countertop.

“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” a soft voice asks, echoing above, off in the distance.

And Kevin doesn’t really know if this is an emergency, perhaps it’s a blessing, really, and maybe he’s dreaming in this haze of disconnect, but every time he closes and opens his eyes, the blood build-up on his white shirt increases, amplifying cold, uncomfortable wetness.

“I’ll have a pepperoni pizza with broccoli for delivery, please,” Kevin deadpans, feeling faint.

“Sir?” the confused operator inquires.

“Sir, are you there?”

It’s a real challenge to keep his torso upright, so he curls into a fetal position, surrendering as the tension eases; his hand clutched against his chest in the nest of tissue; the responder’s voice fading as Kevin’s breath slows. He still can’t pinpoint why he stabbed the box this time as he closes his eyes; it was just an impulse, possibly provoked by unanswered Linkedin requests for job interviews or Facebook memories, spotlighting an old photo of him and Catherine, but maybe there is no reason; maybe it was just random and arbitrary, like how life seems to play out without providing any closure. His concern concedes as he feels a consoling hand on his back, caressing, comforting, and he hopes it’s Catherine so he can finally apologize, instead of attributing blame to her lack of libido, and let her know he never forgave himself for losing her.

Opening his eyes, his foggy vision stabilizes, and he’s welcomed by his mother, who’s no longer emaciated inside of a casket, no, she’s healthy and smiling actually; her face is full, her gray glassy eyes gaze as she sits next to him on the cold linoleum kitchen floor, applying a band-aide to his hand with care, just like she used to do when he fell off his bike as a child.

“Help is on the way, Kevin,” the angelic voice whispers, prompting a smile as he perks up, thinking he might even see his father.

He knows he’s in shock and probably hallucinating, since he’s lost a lot of blood, but he doesn’t care because life’s all about perception, or so he’s read on a block lettered Pinterest board, and if this fabricated reality brings him comfort in the moment, he’s okay with that. So, he sits, holding his mother’s imaginary hand, content, feeling the clogged overflowing sink pouring down on him, but it’s a refreshing shower after a day of playing with friends outside, cleansing him of his worries, washing away the blood as the bleeding finally stops.

An English literature graduate of James Madison University, Chris currently works full-time as a senior copywriter in New Jersey and part-time as a freelance copy editor and marketing writer. His 2020 short story "Finn Almost Buys a Goldfish" won the “Emerging Writer’s Award" at Spank the Carp Magazine, and his short story “The Swim” was recognized as the Best in Fiction for 2019 at Across the Margin. His work has also been featured in Misery Tourism Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, and elsewhere.

Instagram: @coopd88