Winter Greens

I’m in the half-dream state that is mid-morning. The winter sun burrows through the shades and romances its way onto the covers but she’s full of shit; it’s cold as the ninth level and has been for weeks.

Janet sleeps next to me, facing the wall. There’s a two-inch gap between her hips and mine, and each time I place my hand on her side it seems to rivet her like a needle. Maybe my hands are cold. Maybe she can remember in her sleep the agony I inflict daily.

I don’t envy her. Each time I withdraw into my own little world, she bears the brunt of my insulting behavior. I’m unequivocally a monster after my fourth bourbon, especially after a twelve hour shift at the coat hanger factory.

There is no pride in the employ of the largest coat hanger conglomerate in the United States. (It doesn’t help that the primary source for coat hangers is actually the Philippines.) So I, in turn, take little pride in my own life, deriving pleasure out of the most perilous and positively dysfunctional ways. My days off are spent drinking heavily, when I am at my least self-distructive.

This morning I groggily wander about the house, embroiled by my pounding headache and dry mouth. Janet still sleeps. Peaches, her rat of a canine, has made his way onto the receding warm spot I left moments ago, and looks up at me without any recognition of my superiority as a species or as an authority figure.

I brew coffee from a tin, cut it with what’s left of last night’s alcohol, and slurp it down while watching footage of the Korean War on PBS. I am confident I am the only guy at the factory who even knows what PBS stands for. I know Janet doesn’t.

The first glance in the mirror is usually one of disgust and the urge to break the glass, or the face behind it, is generally overwhelming. This morning, however, it appears someone has beaten me to it. The panes that once swung open to reveal a medicine cabinet lay in pieces on the sink and across the bathroom floor, intermingled with the occasional drop of dried blood.

The blood spots are so perfect, the splatter patterns untouched. I stare for a long time at the different spots, each with its own unique shape perfectly preserved on the bathroom tile. It is only after a few moments of this that I notice the difference between one of the spots and another: a new one has appeared, bright, vibrant and with the slightest sheen visible from the reflection of the light bulbs, in contrast to the dried brownish color of the rest.

I lift my right hand to examine it, and it appears that I am indeed the culprit. Perfectly strait gashes are scattered across what used to be my knuckles, and the cut on my ring finger has reopened and is glistening. This, too, proves fascinating to me, and I am enraptured in the slowly flowing shade of crimson over the crevasses of the back of my hand.

I stumble out of the bathroom, narrowly avoiding shards of glass with my bare feet, and return to the bedroom.

“Sorry about the mirror last night, babe. I don’t even remember it happening,” I say, lifting the dog from my place on the bed.

He whimpers slightly, and I wipe the hair from her ears. Then I notice the blood. It is no longer fascinating, and I lift her eyelids, revealing pupils dilated beyond recognition and rolling sloppily from side to side. On her nightstand, the pills are mixed and scattered.

“Oh shit, oh shit. Hang on baby.”

I race to the phone, my fingers are stained and they in turn stain the nine and one on the dial.

“Please state the nature of the emergency,” a cold and distant voice requests.

“She’s O.D.’d and bleeding to death. Send an ambulance,” I scream and hang up.

I return to the bedroom, and lift her head. A razor-like sliver of mirror falls from her neck, and an ocean of crimson gushes onto the sheets. I lift the shard into the light, glinting not unlike Excalibur must have the first time it was hoisted from the anvil.

I plunge it deep, deep into skin until I reach bone, and then repeat until the sirens take us both away.