Ruby Red Marionette

thirteen | craft

//: Devin to the side. 

I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet, but I could see the sunlight. I could feel the warmth on my eyelids. I could see the darkness under them change to a red-purple color. I was awake - I didn’t know where I was, and couldn’t remember anything, but I made two bitter discoveries once I woke up. The first: well, I’m alive. The second: the aching that seemed to run deep into my skull was a product of my irresponsible drinking the night before.

And, after regaining some memory of why I was drinking and who I was with, the third discovery (and the pain that came with it) was obvious.

I opened my eyes. I was laying on a bed, which was surprising given the state of soreness my body was in. Slowly, I began to identify more pieces of information about where I was. They came one at a time, like someone was appeasing my curiosity. There was a window to my left that stretched across the wall, displaying a panoramic view of the city. The city itself looked dark and gray, but I was accustomed to the gloominess by now. There were little droplets of water on the glass, creating a layer of polka dots over the view. It had rained last night, apparently. The floor was carpeted (I didn’t know why this piece of information was relevant to me, and I was irritated at my brain for processing the material on the floor instead of more important things, like the room itself). In front of me was a small plasma television. It was turned off, showing a reflection of myself. I was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt from the summer camp I went to with Simon years ago.

It was then that I realized I hadn’t dressed myself.

This was a hotel room. My hangover wasn’t allowing me to recall what exactly happened at Simon’s house, but all I knew was that I was there. That was enough to deduct that at some point last night, I was unconscious, and he removed the clothes I was wearing and dressed me in some of the clothes I’d left over at his house over the years (and conveniently chose this shirt for me). Then, I guess, I left him and came to a hotel.

So Simon still had my clothes. The clothes I was wearing last night, the clothes that I would burn if I had the chance.

I couldn’t go back and get them from him. I couldn’t go back at all. I had lived hundreds of long, forgettable, sinful, and confusing nights, but last night was the worst of them all. Not because of what took place, but because of how long it lasted. Maybe if the sky hadn’t been dark for what felt like forever, I could have found refuge in the sunrise. I could have gone to the abandoned train station far away from the studio, from Simon, from anything I knew and recognized. I could have sat by myself and watched things - watched the sky change from a deep blue, to a rich yellow, and then to the pale gray we had now. I could have cried. I could have let myself heal.

But I couldn’t. I just kept running.

I pulled up the leg of my pants - there was dried blood on my cut. It hadn’t quite turned into a scar yet; every time it was on its way to fading, it just began bleeding again. Either that, or someone was sneaking up to me every second and stabbing me in the leg.

If that were the case, that person should move up a couple inches and aim for my chest.

I did it, eventually. I followed the routine. I closed the blinds, took a shower, stared at myself in the mirror for a few minutes. Then I sat in the middle of the room, naked and damp and still hurting. I closed my eyes. What I was doing wasn’t meditating. That’s when people sit down, close their eyes, clear their thoughts, and try to find peace and happiness and closure. This, what I was doing, was closing your eyes, clearing your thoughts, and trying your best to kill yourself without actually exerting any energy.

It didn’t work.

Room service knocked. They asked if it was a good time for them to come in and clean, and I told them that it was, because I was leaving (but I made sure to snag a couple of their soaps first).