Pain Is A Kind Of Power

Pain Is A Kind Of Power (Draft 1)

                When she was asked why it happened, Holly could've said anything. She could've said that work was on top of her, and the stress was too much. She could've said that a lover had left her life all too quickly, and that's why it happened. She could've told them that she had nothing to live for, and that's why she slit her wrists.

But she didn't. She didn't make up a half-assed excuse for why she'd been carted off to the psych ward, but instead she told the truth, and now all the doctors, who'd been trailing aimlessly into her room all day to check on her, knew her mess of a life. The pitying glances were overwhelming, as if they were too scared to look too long or too hard at her in case she fractured and broke into a million pieces on their watch.

She'd cracked almost immediately. Waking up after the doctor's had patched her up, there'd been an angel above her. Her dark hair fell over Holly and everything from her stark, crisp shirt to her teeth seemed to emit a light.

She'd been so kind, so tender, so understanding that Holly had just caved in, answering all her questions without hesitation. That's what angels were for, she thought. To let you feel, to help you understand.

Why? Because I was miserable, came the reply. Because I couldn't deal with anything, with her, with myself, with everything that had happened. I couldn't cope so I tried to remove myself from this world; from all worlds. I couldn't even do that right.

When? When I got home from the bar. It was a long time coming, after spending months drinking myself into a state night after night. I just came home and had a brilliant idea, like all the great people do. It's for the best this way, I promise.

How? Easy. I tried first with glass, from the bottle I knocked over on the way to the kitchen sink - that was my inspiration, really. I owe all of this to that bottle. Then, when that didn't work, I just became more determined. It was one of those small knives that you slice cheese with, the sharp, thin ones. Two lines across each wrist, yes I remember. Yes it was intentional. But I'm an artist, you see? That's why it didn't work. I've a steady hand, too steady sometimes. If only I was nervous about it; if only there was a tremor, a shake, a stutter that would've forced my hand that little bit extra.

The angel had been so calm, listening to Holly, that she'd murmured her way through it all without a hint of regret, without a trace of fear. She'd nodded when there was silence, there were gentle touches to remind her not to itch at the thick bandages covering her wrists.

It was only now, though, recovering from the haze of the anaesthetic, that Holly had grasped onto that memory. The white gown, which was in reality the light blue scrubs of a nurse, told her that she'd confided in a carer. Perhaps even one of the pitying women who wandering through her room. She'd told one person, and thus the whole hospital (presumably) knew about her predicament.

Now she lay in the hospital bed, sneaking a finger under the bandages every now and then to itch the fast-forming scabs and trying desperately not to think of the real answer to why.

Why she was lying in this bed with no one beside her to hold her hand.

Why her emergency contact, despite multiple calls, hadn't picked up the phone once.

Why the nurses were staring at her in such a fashion.

•••

It was three days later when the angel came back to see her. It was obviously her, who stood out from the other nurses, dark hair with dark skin, a welcoming sight against the blinding white of everything else.