Lost Journals

The perfect tickless silence of a clock stopped universe filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process. Crying is even quieter.

Peri curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, cradling her bleeding fist. Sobs undulated within her body while not a whimper escapes her quaking red lips.

The bathroom was the epicenter of all life’s grief: a place to cleanse wounds, wash away the evidence of sexual transgressions, and purge toxins. A place to replace the face before returning to the world.

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the midnight streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one dream into another.

This morning Peri had tried to gaze into her own pale green eyes wondering if they displayed her torment. She’d put her feeble fist through the medicine cabinet when she imagined a cloud passing through the depths of green.

Red ribbons of skin hung from her fingers. Peri knew she needed stitches to hold the delicate skin together; however, a hospital asks too many questions.

Peri stood before the shattered mirror, wound gauze around her hand, and watched her reflection fracture.

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan apartment for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the front door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from one of her pockets as she’d peeled her jeans off the night before.

Howard’s voice was tired and gravely—lacking his first cup of herbal tea. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Howie, I need to go to the hospital.”

“Then hop into your cute little beamer and drive your cute little butt to the ER. I’m sleeping and I’m not alone. Can you dig?”

“I can’t shift and I think I’m still drunk.”

“Jesus, Peri. Can you wait half and hour or are you really dying this time.”

“Send her home gently.”

She pulled on a navy suit, opting for flats instead of wobbling on heels. The tea kettle sounded its heated protest fro the kitchen. She made two cups to-go and waited on the sofa.