By David Matti
I’ve always wondered how it feels to kill a person. Is this something everyone goes through at some point? I get it. Life is all about making choices and facing the consequences of one’s actions, but such thoughts are ok as long as they stay in your mind right?
My bassist Jason; a thin-curly-hairy teenager with thick glasses and mustache-size eyebrows shows off his new pocket knife. Kevin, my pale-diebetic- hobbit-size friend, asks for it and jokes around pretending to cut himself. Kevin is a nice guy and is the youngest one of us. He isn’t in my band but he likes to attend our jam sessions. He looks up to me and tries to do everything I do, but more importantly he always had the contacts and money to score drugs.
I snatch the knife from him and grab his hand. He smiles at me and dares me. I press down with the serrated edge of Jason’s pocket knife against his wrist. Sitting like a stump with his little insulin pump attached to his side and with a tiny tube that is inserted under the skin, covered by his black slipknot shirt. Of course, I wouldn’t but I wanted to get close enough to scare him. So my plan is to lift it just a little bit right before fake slicing it.
I lift and slice, and in a blink of an eye the skin split open as wide as a yawn, exposing severed veins, tendons and for a split second there was no blood whatsoever. Then, an imposing red-like-aged-wine squirts out by pumps. I quickly clench my hand around his wrist and firmly apply pressure. I look at Kevin’s face and he calmly says
“Oh man, why did you do that?”
‘I’m so sorry, I’ll fix it.’
I turn to Jason and my
backward-cap-wearing-overweight-drummer, Mark and they’re petrified.
‘Get me something to stop the bleeding.’
They’re clueless faces only exacerbate my panic. ‘Gimme a towel or something dammit!’
I see the blood oozing out from my grip, it drips down pooling between our feet, staining my all-white converse. My vision starts to fade, my hearing is muffled and It feels harder to grasp for air. I’m losing consciousness and I force myself to stay awake. Kevin mumbles and his lips are blue. He’s almost asleep, losing balance, his eyes are rolled back and I slap him hard, no response, I slap him again and he wakes, his eyes searching everywhere before fixing on me.
‘Kevin! Stay with me man! Stay with me!’
“I don’t want to die man.. I don’t…”
‘No, don’t say that, you’re not gonna die!’
I try to not cry. Jason slams open the door to the garage with a bunch of white towels.
“Does this help? Oh shit man! He doesn’t look good”
‘Call an ambulance Jason!’
I take five quick breaths before focusing on what I must do. I let go of his mutilated wrist, blood gushes out and I wrap the wound as tight as I can doing a half-ass tourniquet. It seems to control the bleeding, I tell them to watch him, as I head over to the bathroom and lock the door. I start taking in deep breaths until I notice my reflection in the mirror.
My forehead, cheeks, and nose have red on it. My hands are fully drenched and dripping with blood. I leave the faucet running but why do I find myself running my sinner’s hands all over my face. Like a painter, eager to forever stain his canvas into art. So wet and warm it drips down to the end of my nose and chin. Oh the smell, that potent penny-like-smell, dare I taste it? I let it drip into the tip of my tongue, it makes the hair on my arms raise up. I hear the echoes of my laughter, for that time I forgot about everything. Seconds of pure bliss and pleasure, is this ok? Am I fucked up?
I’ve never had so much blood on me that wasn’t my own. I don’t want this to end. After a few moments of gazing into my eyes, trying to recognize what I’m seeing, I feel the blood drying, it defines every crease and wrinkle. I smile and dried blood breaks off into little chunks and falls into the white sink. I collect myself and wipe my hands and face clean before facing the consequences of my actions. Kevin is either dead or dying, we can’t wait for the ambulance anymore so I carry Kevin and put him inside Mark’s pick up truck and I ride in the cabin. We decide to drop him off at the hospital where his mother works as a doctor. After a 10 min ride we carry him to the entrance and place him in a seat and call for help. A nurse comes and we leave, we heard her say wait but we pretend not to hear.
I feel guilty to just leave him there but what was I supposed to say? There’s no way I wouldn’t go to jail, I mean what if he doesn’t make it? After arriving back at the garage/studio Mark hands me a cigarette, I take it and light it. My fingers still have blood on them and immediately I see blood gushing again and again and everytime I blink I see it, non-stop. I try to keep my hand from shaking, Mark is talking to me and somehow I’m answering but I’m trapped inside my head, stuck in this fucking loop.
I’ve always known there’s something different in me, since I was little I was always sketching weird and violent things which begs to question if there’s always been something broken in me, or if after this, I’m more fucked up that I’ve ever been before. I guess only time will tell. For now, I’ll just try to act as a normal teen to fit amongst you.
Writer Nova 