Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  My eyes trailed away from my chest, to my shirt-covered shoulder, then down my arm. My sleeves were pulled up to my elbows, so I was able to examine the details of my forearm until I finally got to my hand.

  The tips of my fingers started tingling. It started at the tips—near where the nails begin on the opposite side—and began to tingle down, following the bones until it went to the center of my hand.

  The warmth was too great to ignore, each individual throb like an orgasm going off inside my head.

  I knew what I had to do.

  People don’t realize what happens when you cut yourself. When you start bleeding, the brain produces endorphins, which keeps you from actually feeling the pain until much later. In a way, it gives you a sort of buzz, one that feels good.

  The knife was poised in a way that would allow me to start the cut from the bottom of the middle finger. I knew that the first original entry would hurt, but probably not enough to do a whole lot. When I started hitting the hundreds upon thousands of nerves though, that would be a problem.

  You might as well do it. Just sitting there and looking at the knife isn’t going to get your hand open.

  I met resistance with the first cut, but the pressure I applied to the handle made the tip slide in. The pain wasn’t too bad at first. I barely felt it at all. But when I started pushing the knife deeper—down past the fat and the muscle—it started hurting.

  A fourth of the way to the center of my hand, the pain started. Tears broke the surface of my eyes and the burn erupted across every part of my hand. I kept cutting until I got down to the center, then continued on to the bottom.

  Shit.

  Now, sitting there with a gaping cut down the center of my hand, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to see the bone unless I cut more skin, fat and muscle away. So, I decided to do a Y-incision, just like I had seen on the health channel. I brought my knife up to the center of my palm and made the first diagonal cut. After that cut, I made the second and final one.

  With the Y-incision now done, I set the knife down and peeled the mass of flash, fat and muscle back with the fingers on my opposite hand.

  Before my eyes lay the most magnificent of things; the white of bone. I flexed my fingers and watched the center of my hand react. It shifted, showing each individual bone’s movement. I did several different things with my fingers. I flicked them, curled them, popped them. Each and every movement amazed me, so much that I continued to do it.

  The only reason I stopped was because my grey couch was covered in blood.

  “Fuck.”

  I stood and made my way into the kitchen, ready to bandage my hand and have it all over with. When I grabbed the roll and started upwrapping the thick layer of bandage, I looked down at my hand.

  It looked like it had went through a meat grinder.

  “Goddammit!”

  I threw the bandages against the counter. It shattered a wine glass full of vodka.

  I’d have to go to the hospital.

  Just as I started for the door, I stopped.

  The endorphins started working.

  When I grabbed my car keys, ready to drive to the hospital, something clicked inside my head.

  I fell.

  The room went black.

  Everything spun. Like self-induced vertigo, I had nothing to be afraid of. I could move, I could breathe, I could see. But the pain… the pain took on a different form. With each move of a finger, a fireball lit in the fleshy sinews of my hand, and with every false grasp, a dull throb slid up my arm, where it entered my spine and then my mind.

  Of course, with the room spinning and my hand throbbing, I didn’t feel like getting up. What would be the point? I had accomplished what I had been wanting for so long. I’d seen my bones, I’d seen them good and plain as day; why did I need to get up?

  You don’t, something whispered. But you’re going to.

  Of course I’d get up. I mean, how wouldn’t I be able to get up? I had foreign parts of my own body working against me.

  “Gotta get up,” I finally decided. “You’re going to bleed out if you don’t.”

  Besides; how would I see my other parts if I died?

  You won’t, dumbass.

  The keys—still slung over the middle finger on my left hand—dangled in my grasp, jingling with each and every step toward the door.

  One step two step three step four, five step seven step you’re almost at the door.

  At the tenth step, I grasped the doorknob, pulled it open, and let myself outside.

  I better lock the door.

  I didn’t have a whole lot of stuff, but the few things I had were personal enough to merit my care. I slid the key into the doorknob and locked it before stumbling down the sidewalk. My good hand on the concrete wall that separated my small house from the neighbor’s, I tried as hard as I could to not fall down.

  You might not get up if you fall down again, Linton.

  “Obviously,” I muttered.

  When I got to my car, I slid into the driver’s seat and started the vehicle.

  I could drive with one hand.

  To the ER we go, I thought, pulling out of the driveway.

  I turned my emergency light on for extra measure.

  If I managed to die while on the road, at least someone would find me.

  Not that I cared… much.

  When I opened my eyes, bright, white light filled my vision. I cried out, bringing my hands up to shield my face. But, just when I did that, another pain flared up in my hand.

  The knife… my bones…

  The last thing I remembered was getting into my car and pulling away from my house.

  Where had I ended up?

  “Hello?” I asked, hoping that someone—anyone—would hear my voice.

  “It’s all right. I’m right here.”

  When I opened my eyes, a handsome black man smiled back at me.

  “Hey, Linton,” he smiled. “I’m Doctor Stevens, the one who stitched your hand up.”

  I looked down. The hand that I had brutally mutilated earlier lay on my chest, where I had set it after flinging it around. The evidence of what I had done lay wrapped under several bandages.

  “How did I get here?”

  I tried to focus on the doctor’s eyes, but wasn’t able to. So, with nothing else to do, I simply closed them.

  “It’s ok,” Stevens smiled. “Don’t worry about looking at me when you’re talking.”

  I nodded. I didn’t really care—because my hand hurt like no other—but I still wanted to assure the man that I had understood what he said.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “my friend in the ER, he said that you came stumbling in. Before you could say anything, you fainted, right there on the floor. He saw your hand and unwrapped it to see what you’d done. We get a lot of people who come in for little cuts, especially people who pass out because of the sight of blood. But God, your hand… what’d you do to it?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Of course, telling the truth would get me thrown into their psyche ward faster than I could say my full, real name (which, in itself, took a while to do, because I couldn’t say Pansy without cringing. It always took more than a minute to say my last name after that.)

  “You don’t remember?” Stevens frowned. “I mean, I can understand it—you lost a lot of blood and all, but you don’t remember anything?”

  “I think I was messing around with my blender,” I said.

  Smooth, Linton.

  Real smooth, that other part of my conscience muttered.

  “Ouch.” Stevens grimaced. “You must’ve been having a hell of a time with it. Funny, though, how it cut in an almost-perfect Y shape.”

  “Yeah, funny,” I muttered.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

  “It’s ok.” I sat up, rubbing the middle of my forehead with two fingers. “Can I go home now?”

  “Oh, no!” the man laughed, setting a hand on my
shoulder. “You lost way too much blood, Linton. You’re going to have to stay here for the night, maybe even a day.”

  “But I…”

  “If there’s something you need to have taken care of, you can use the phone on that table there, by your bed.” Stevens took a few steps back. “There’s also a button on the armrest. Click that if you need me. I’ll be here all night.”

  With that, the handsome doctor turned the light off and closed the door.

  I’d be stuck here for the rest of the night, if I got lucky.

  The next morning, I checked out of the hospital with little to no question. Doctor Stevens told me to call and ask for him if I needed anything.

  To top my already-brilliant day off, I got stuck in mid-morning traffic.

  Exactly what I needed, I thought, trying to keep a steady hold on the wheel, but trying not to hurt my hand any more than I needed to.

  When I thought about it, that was something my Driver’s Ed teacher gave me hell for. You can’t drive with one hand, he had said, whenever I’d tried to do just that. Of course, the man himself drove with only one hand, all the time. I’d passed the class, but my guilty conscience wouldn’t let me drive well if I didn’t use both hands.

  “My weakness,” I muttered.

  I reached for the radio—with my right hand, nonetheless—but stopped short. My hand hurt enough; it’d feel really good to jar it back before I had to start driving again.

  Which I’m not even supposed to be doing.

  The handsome black doctor had offered me a ride home, but I’d refused. Regardless of how lonely I felt—and how desperately I wanted a man to fill the black hole that was my life—getting involved with someone wouldn’t be worth it.

  He’d just love to see you cut yourself open again, the voice taunted. Might give him something to think about, maybe write a thesis for. He’s not a full-fledged doctor, is he?

  He probably wasn’t, now that I thought about it. Doctor Stevens most likely got his doctorate because he had studied something simple, like hands. He said he’d stitched up my hand, hadn’t he?

  That’s probably the only thing he can stitch up.

  Oh well; the guy saved my hand, so I couldn’t complain.

  As that holy light that hung above the intersection marked its right from anger to passage, my vehicle flowed with the traffic, almost without my will. When you learn how to drive, certain things you do become subconscious; checking mirrors, adjusting speed, slowing down and breaking.

  When the car in the right lane moved, I merged, making sure that the guy in the fancy white car didn’t hit me. Really, I didn’t care if he hit the car any (because it’s a piece of shit Lincoln that my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday,) but I didn’t feel like getting it banged up any more than it had to be.

  “Besides,” I sighed, then smiled after a moment of thought. “I like this shitty old car.”

  Dad had put in a good amount of effort to find it. I’d grown up poor, but my old man had always taken care of me, one way or another. The car had been ‘a rite of passage,’ as he described it. He’d explained how teenage boys went through three big ones; having ‘the talk’ and learning how to shave, getting their first car, and then leaving home.

  My old man had been there for all three. And—unlike a lot of my other friends’ fathers—he never beat me.

  The minute I saw the street that I lived on, my dad faded from my mind. I hit the turn signal with my left hand—quickly, as always—and directed the old car down the street.

  The house was as it had been last night. But, to my surprise, blood stained the concrete wall. It took me a minute, but I realized that the blood had come from my hand, when I had been leaning against the wall for support.

  It’ll be fine, for now, I thought, running a hand over my face.

  If someone asked, I’d tell them the truth; I’d cut my hand bad enough to merit going to the hospital, and I’d been so disoriented that I had to lean against something or risk falling over. It’d be the truth. I wouldn’t have to lie unless they asked how I cut my hand, which I would most certainly lie about.

  I don’t even think I own a blender, I thought, stepping out of my car.

  I laughed my ass off all the way to the door.

  I took the painkillers Doctor Stevens prescribed. Now—in the kitchen, leaning against the counter—I tried to get my bearings. I had been told not to drive, and while I had politely said that my friend was going to give me a ride and that I’d come and get my car later, it had been a complete and utter lie. I’d dialed my home phone—waited for three rings—then talked to my imaginary friend ‘Roger,’ whom I made up on the spot.

  Doesn’t matter, I thought, suddenly feeling guilty about what I’d done. Stevens doesn’t want a liar for a partner anyway.

  I’d lied to the man how many times? One for the blender, two for saying that I wouldn’t drive, three for driving home myself; three lies and I’m out. Or did the second and third lie only count as one altogether?

  “Who fucking cares,” I muttered. “At least I’m home.”

  Oh, yes, the voice said. At least you’re home.

  The shiver that slithered up my spine and down my arms had to have been the coldest, slimiest thing I had ever felt.

  “It’s ok,” I said, rubbing my arms, trying to laugh my feeling off. “I’m just paranoid, that’s all.”

  Or are you?

  I’d been paranoid since I hit puberty at eleven. My parents said that I was just going through a phase and that I’d get over it soon enough, but—of course—I never did. I stopped telling my parents I had bad feelings. And, somehow, I had even managed to control the shakes.

  They’ll put you in the nuthouse for doin’ that, a friend of mine had said.

  So I stopped shaking, I stopped shivering. Surprisingly, I’d even stopped getting bad feelings—until now, that is.

  “What I need is some sleep.”

  When I turned to face the threshold, black spots filled my vision.

  You might have some trouble with vision for a few days, Stevens whispered, old words just coming back. Blood loss does some funny things to you. Just take it easy. Take a few days off work; get some rest.

  The first few steps were nothing, but the few after sent me into the wall. I grimaced, thankful that I had fallen to my left and not my right hand, but still nervous. How would I get to the couch if I couldn’t take a few steps?

  You can fall on the floor if you need to. Just be careful. Slow, baby steps.

  When I stepped on the carpet, everything stopped.

  I fell…

  And fell…

  And fell…

  I came to in the midst of black depression. Every single bit of good that I had had in me was gone, replaced by thick knots of black. Tumors, I’d call them, sprouting over the base of my spine, up into the fleshy stems of my brain. They pulsed, twisted, convulsed, like some androgynous sea worm spewed from the bottom of the ocean by a volcanic eruption.

  After arranging myself into a sitting position, I took slow, deep breaths to try and keep the spots out of my vision.

  You know, that voice inside my head said. It might get rid of the pressure in your head if you make a few knicks.

  My body knew the knife like a best friend. The scars on my wrist—while not plentiful—existed in a way that could only have if they had been self-inflicted. While they had since scared over, and while they no longer looked as obvious as they once had, you could still make them out if you looked hard enough.

  “I’m not going to hurt myself,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “I’m just going to lay down.”

  After getting to my feet, I stumbled the last few feet to the couch, collapsing on its soft, grey surface.

  You’ll be ok in a few days, the friendly doctor said. Just take it easy.

  “Take it easy.”

  For a moment, I thought I hadn’t said the words.

  Then I closed my eyes and dissolved into sleep.

 
; When I woke up, I had more energy than I had had in a long time. It felt like I had so much that it’d just start pouring out of my hands.

  “I feel better,” I laughed, getting to my feet. “Look at me!”

  I jumped around a little, hoping the steam would just gradually burn off.

  Five minutes later, it still hadn’t.

  Maybe it’s the medicine.

  Again, whatever had spoken was not my regular voice.

  “It’s just the medicine,” I muttered, walking into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and eyed a cola that I’d bought the day before. I had a low tolerance for caffeine (any kind of drug, really,) so even a little soda would make me go places. A whole liter of the stuff would—in my opinion—be the equivalent of smoking a joint.

  Better not drink that.

  Better not.

  I chuckled.

  I thought something, then my conscience added something to the mix.

  I’m paranoid.

  This time, the voice didn’t reply.

  Maybe it didn’t respond when it knew I was thinking about it?

  I decided on a sandwich instead of the soda. After pulling the ham, cheese and tomatoes out of the fridge, I threw everything on the nearby table and grabbed a knife.

  Same knife.

  I hadn’t recalled washing the thin filet knife.

  Merely staring at its surface elicited so many feelings. For one, I got excited, really excited. The butterfly flew up from my stomach and settled on my heart, beating its wings against my lungs. I tried to take slow, deep breaths to calm my incessant breathing. My hands twitched—even my hurt one, which, strangely, had no pain. And my eyes, they kept darting over the cheese and tomatoes I’d have to cut up.

  You can get rid of these feelings if you let some blood out. You know this.

  Yes, I knew, but I had no intention of putting a knife to my arm.

  “Yeah, I’m weird,” I chuckled.