Obstacle by Andrew There is something about cutting that frightens me. It honestly scares the living shit out of me. All the flashes of thin blades, jagged scissors, biting needles. The iciness of stainless steel against flesh. They are too much for me to handle. Just the tiniest thought, a mere inkling of these things sends shuddering waves of nausea over me, makes my tongue recoil into the dark recesses of my mouth. It has some power to make my blood run cold. I don't know how other people can do it. Hell, I can't even shave in the mornings without the fear that my hand will quiver and my fingers will slip, leaving a bloody chasm across my cheek or my jawline. I imagine red dripping onto the porcelain sink, spreading across pale linoleum like wasted wine. The cheap kind you don't mind spilling raucously. As I gasp for one final breath it will fill the bathroom, swell over my head until I surely drown. It might seem as if I have an overactive imagination, that I might be paranoid, but these are real things I fear. So very real. But no worries. I've discovered other ways to harm myself. Fingernails, teeth. I've essentially removed the middleman: that unrelenting, foreign force. The one that makes me hesitate, hover above my target with a random household object when I am nearly alone. Now there is only familiarity. Almost like visiting a childhood friend; it eases the burden, makes it so much easier to lie. To look your best mate in the eye and utter deceitful things like "I must have scratched myself in my sleep" or "I got into a fight the other day." I would sweetly force the lies into their mouths, press one hand on top of their head, the other under their jaw and squeeze them towards each other. I would make certain that they consumed these falsehoods without the slightest trace of doubt. Who would look at me the same way if they ever found out what I actually did in privacy? That I wasn't having trouble finding a jacket in the closet or bedroom, being fussy with my hair in the restroom? In reality I was clumsily raking a nail across my arm, staring nervously at the door whilst hoping to God, hoping to anything that someone wasn't going to walk in and catch me in the act. See the fresh lacerations, the glistening ruby bite marks. But Carlos knew. There were moments when we would have a lie down on the sofa, the bed, even the floor if we felt like it. Serene, quiet times in which I would shift around on the scratchy carpet in search of a comfortable position or doze off listening to him speak in low tones, letting his words float lazily across my face like warm breezes. I could never remember what he whispered into the crook of my neck, yet it was comforting all the same. And then it would happen. When was I going to learn? I was caught off-guard every single time. He would abruptly pause mid-sentence, tongue still touching the back of his front teeth, and catch my wrist within an iron-like vise. I wanted him to hurt me so I wouldn't have to. Anticipated it at every moment. In the very beginning, I used to think he was going to snap my bones with that grip; unfortunately, he never did. Stuck in a lethargic immobility I could only watch helplessly as he gingerly pushed up a loose sleeve to reveal the damage. The damage I had done to myself. I have always felt as if life would be too kind to let me die in the exact second Carlos looked back into my eyes with that look. There was a heavy disappointment that lingered there. I swear it'll fucking haunt me to the end of my days. Let me die of shame, let me die of... I didn't. And he never actually did anything about the "problem" he was faced with. Never told anyone, never threatened to leave me like he ought to have done long ago. Yet it made everything worse. I can't figure out why he's still around. It baffles me. Keeps me awake almost every night. It makes all the anguish, every little suffering grating upon my brain harder and harder to cope with because after all of the shit I put him through, he wouldn't abandon my side. I would scream and shout, purposefully pick fights whether we were in public or not. Right in front of friends or fans. I relished the shocked expressions he gave me when I did that, his eyes darting about hoping that no one heard my foul mouth. But he never fought back. I'd wave a flaming hoop off to my right and he'd jump through it in a heartbeat. Either a very loyal man or a very desperate one. I wasn't sure which Carlos was, or if he was both. He would not fail to wrap me up in a tight embrace that was more like he was trying to crush my ribs than hug me. Cover me with moist kisses and repeatedly beg me to stop, to get help. I would utter a thousand promises against the smooth surfaces of his face. Only hours later, I would break every fucking last vow to reform. I only wish it was the picnic Carlos must have thought it was. As if it were so simple as to wake up in the morning and say whilst cheerfully stretching my arms above my head, "You know, today seems like a good day to stop hurting yourself." If it were that easy, I would have stopped ages ago. Oh, if it were that easy I'd stop letting him down. There was one promise I could never break - I'd always let him down. That's probably why I'm still hiding in the dim bathroom. I'm weak. I'm a coward. I'm THE coward. Seated on the hard edge of the toilet seat, straining my ears to make sure that Carlos has left the flat like he said he would. We have plans tonight. He wants to take me out to some nice restaurant down the street. I know he thinks it'll make me feel better, but he's never exactly grasped the concept of "throwing materialism at Paul does not work." I appreciate the things he does, I really do - yet I feel unworthy. I don't deserve anything more than to shred myself up until there's nothing left of whatever I was before. I only hear a soft electrical hum from the fluorescent bulbs above the mirror. He must be waiting in the car for me. I quickly suck in my breath, holding the cool, soap-smelling air in my lungs as I focus on the task at hand. What if he's still here? The question hangs darkly above my head. I can't banish it. It won't go away. I pretend to ignore it as I roll up the baggy sleeves of my shirt. My gaze rests on each arm, carefully looking them over them with an expert eye. The left one today, I decide. It appeared as if it was beginning to heal - I couldn't let that happen. And it's not even my own sharp nails digging into my skin anymore. It feels like someone else is etching red tallymarks, scratching crude lines. I'm engrossed - the effect is something like seeing blood across fresh snow for the first time. The contrast is so startling. It's morbidly beautiful. Cold. Where was that draft coming from? I was drawn back into reality by a numb feeling creeping up my arm. Oh, my God... I cried out. Something unintelligible. Whatever I shouted made no fucking sense at all. But that didn't matter. Blood was everywhere. Dripping down my trousers, forming a shimmering puddle at my feet. And it hurt like nothing I've ever experienced in my life. I was exhaling sharp whimpers. I slammed my forearm into my chest, trying to stop the bleeding. Already the front of my shirt was becoming uncomfortably warm and sticky. Was I going to die? There was so much red. My head was pounding, eyes streaming with frantic tears. Stupid! So stupid... With my free hand I began ripping toilet paper from the roll, pressing into the floor in a futile attempt to soak up the blood. Suddenly someone was beating on the door. My heart flipped sickeningly in my chest. They were furiously turning the door knob. The door was locked. "Let me in! What's wrong? Please, let me in..." Carlos. Oh, he had heard me! He was going to save me. If I didn't pass out before I could unlock the door. I fumbled one-handedly with the metal, leaning all my weight into it as I hurriedly wrenched it open in a moment of despair. Without support from the door, I lost my balance. I slipped in my own blood, smacking into the ground with a wet slap. The rest of my body stung but the pain in my arm would not subside. The door swung open and loudly flew into the opposite wall, rebounding into Carlos. I heard him gasp at what must have been a horrendous, pitiful sight, though I couldn't see anything save for the tiled floor beneath me. A pair of strong hands gripped me by the shoulders, pushed me onto my kness. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I was overwhelmed with dizziness, concentrating on keeping my eyes open. That was difficult enough. I would get a chance to express my gratitude later. I hoped. "Just... stay still. Stop moving." He scolded me under his breath, gently propping me this way and that because I kept sliding about. A moment later I heard a quick, tearing sound. I winced. He had torn his shirt. I was certain it was one of his favourites, too. His fingers burned me as he wrapped them around my wrist, trying to pull my arm away from me. I could feel him tightly wounding the fabric over my wounds, again and again. Satisfied, he clamped a hand around his makeshift bandages. Applying pressure to stop the flow. Thank you, thank you, thank you... It seemed like days had spun past. We both sat motionless, staring intently at my arm. The minutes of an imaginary clock ticked by and still no one spoke. I gently cleared my throat. What would he do now? He must be disgusted by me. Perhaps now he would finally leave. This had to be the final straw. I had tipped the scales in my favour - I wanted to sabotage everyone and everything so that I could be miserable all by myself. Carlos sighed, slowly peeling his long fingers away from the cloth. His hand was covered in rosy blotches and he simply wiped them away across the thigh of his black trousers. Selfless, I thought. Endangering his clothes like that. "Are you going to leave me?" My voice surprised me. It was small, timid. Threatened to disappear in its near inaudibilty. Needy, like that of a child's. Was I a child? Did I really need him this much? I slowly lifted a trembling hand to his face, running the slick pad of my thumb across his mouth. He kissed it, inched into the smeared pool of blood, kissed it again. Soldiering little Carlos, ready to brave all obstacles. Another low sigh fluttered from his lips. "Of course I'm not. Do you think I would have ripped a perfectly good shirt if I didn't care?"