little tragedies

i think she sliced her wrist and watched the blood drip. she sat there squinting at the magnificent red against the dull, white tiles. you could scarcely hear the momentous noise of blood hitting linoleum. it was like a thunder clap. drip, drip, drip. it was silly how no one heard such a disturbance.

her head didn't begin to spin until the droplets became a pool.

that's when she got worried.

she was afraid that the cut wasn't deep enough. she was afraid she wouldn't die. others would be afraid that they would die, but not her. so, she stroked the knife carelessly and squeezed her tears as edge met flesh.

the shriek of utter pain followed the final caress. it ripped a hole into our existence. it twisted us out of bed, forced us to see the meaning behind insanity. no eyes were to look away at that magnificent red on those dull, white tiles! the devil himself had kept our eyes wide and alert.

that night the floor screeched for us to clean it. yet, no one dared touch that brilliant red. we held it there as a reminder of careless behavior. we only dared to clean the red off our feet. our tears echoing through the house, our shame oozing out of every pore.

i watched as the red swirled with the water and made a glorious pattern. the pattern that i would never really forget.

and then the red was gone off the floor, and we sobbed....
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