Blood, the Binder of Promises

Lying down is supposed to be peaceful. Restful, even. You lie down when you feel bad, get something cold, take medicine, and bodily agonies turn into a duller haze of discomfort. That's what's supposed to happen.

That isn't happening.

You writhe and twist in bed but no position eases the pain for more than a few seconds. The bag of ice at your gut does precious little, too, but you'd rather die than face the pain without it.

Just another year of saving up for surgery, you tell yourself. Then you can forcibly rip the life-giving rot from your loins.

That is happening. That will happen.

Because no animal likes being in pain.

But what kind of animal are you, rejecting the purpose of life? Continuation through propagation.

You lift your head from the pillow: An animal that knows that the bloody river of lineage dries up sooner than the steady river of legacy.

You know that's not the real reason.

Fine. The pain is not worth it. The thought of enduring such agony curdles the blood in my veins. If I can hardly weather this, I couldn't stand ejecting sentient, electrified meat from my body.

Because you never take the hard way. The hard way is thrust upon you sooner than later every time you go to such efforts to avoid it. Is commitment too painful for you? Does it have too many steps?

You lie face down. Bury your head in the fabric of the pillow that should have been washed months ago. You don't want to be conscious for this.

This isn't happening. Not right now.

But it is. Because lying down is not peaceful. Lying down is not restful. It is the cave where too many divers have never been found. The incessant echo of your voice returning back to you as your supply of oxygen depletes with each word, until your deprived body finally passes into gentle darkness.

Except pain is keeping you so very, very conscious. Pain that means something. Pain that means progress and commitment to something greater. Exactly what you hate.

You take a deep breath in until your lungs can't expand any farther, hold for a moment, then exhale. Your chest and throat squeeze. You will not cry. You will distract yourself with something else. Anything other than this.

Your too-hot and too-cold body peels away the sheets of the bed you're slowly dying in. The floor is rudely cold as you shamble to the bathroom and close the door quietly.

You sit on the toilet. Let the blood drip, drip, drip. Watch it fade like viscous ink into the water. Almost peaceful. Almost restful.

Yet you always want the last word: I don't hate progress. I can still be successful even if I can't handle commitments.

Maybe. But can you be happy? Can you be better?

People are commitments.

Pets are commitments.

Jobs are commitments.

Hobbies are commitments.

You are a commitment. And you love avoiding yourself. It's a skill, really. You may be able to look at yourself in the mirror, now, but there's no reflection in the reflection, there. You fix your hair, muse on your outfit, mess with the imperfections lacing your skin. But it's all surface-level analysis. You avoid the reflection that resides underneath the physicality of skin.

You think you're different, now. You think you're better. You don't need to tell yourself the definition of insanity, do you?

There's some nifty tchotckes littering your brain, now, certainly: new "habits" and "routines."

But when you brush away the excess? It's just the same animal that wants to avoid pain the only way it knows how.

You stare at the tile. Your face feels hot. Salt mixes with hemoglobin in the bowl below.

The confirmation of silence hurts as much as the accusation of noise.

You futilely try to distract yourself from the gaping wound inside you.

The pain keeps you here. The pain that means something.

You wish it didn't mean anything.

I've made progress. I'm different, you say.

Not in the ways that matter. Not if you want to know what living is like. Because this isn't living. You haven't changed the type of animal you are. All that's changed is that you no longer pretend as though it isn't your fault—that you're incapable of changing your nature.

The collision that will result from your fear, your avoidance, is evitable. Preventable. But your brain is too complacent in this meaningless fog of existence to make an effort to understand what it's like to feel dread. Dread about the far worse pain of failure and the irrevocable commitment of death.

You are complacent to your own failure because it's easier than trying, isn't it?

Fuck you. This—

"This isn't happening. Not right now."

Is what you say. Because with those words, you can pretend as though this is a problem for the future.

And when the future arrives,

"This isn't happening. Not right now."

Is what you say. Because with those words, you can pretend as though you will eventually face the future.

You won't. But the hard way will be thrust upon you sooner than later.

…I know.

What then?

What now? Why do you keep doing this to me? You're my reflection yet you only want to hurt me. So why are you surprised when I stop looking?

Because your reflection wants you to be better. This dread that scratches nails at your heart is born from a desire to be different. This ice that freezes your blood is born from a fear of curdling. You want to be alive. And you don't know if this is truly living.

How can you experience the world around you when you're too busy running from it?

…I can't.

You can't. But you want to.

I don't want to have kids.

That is okay. Not every commitment is one you need to take on. But you need to take on some of them. One at a time, if need be. But that time cannot be never.

Please. I want you to be alive. When I remind you of what you hate it's not because I hate you. I love you. Deeply. But I don't know how else to help you. Not when you refuse to look at me.

Not when you refuse to talk to me.

This can't be our last conversation.

Please, if nothing else, promise that we will speak again.

…

…will it hurt, when we speak again?

Yes. But the pain will mean something. The pain will not be the end of it. There are better things after the pain. Commitments are not only the suffering. They are the flowers after the long winter, too.

I've tried to imagine the flowers before. Everyone else has beautiful gardens. They work diligently, they feel satisfaction even when they have no reward for the work besides the work being done. My one plant wavers on death's door because I cannot imagine the flowers it will sprout. Will it have any? Will they be beautiful?

I don't know. But if not, we will find beauty elsewhere. I promise. I promise that more than anything else: there is beauty. There is joy to be found here.

You only have to look.

Your sniffles trail off. Snot clings to your philtrum. The bowl beneath you is filled with crimson. The wound inside you has not stopped bleeding. But this moment is…

…peaceful. Restful. You flush the blood but keep the memory of the pain.

You meet your eyes in the mirror.

You make a promise.