haka

Bathrooms are another place that commonly uses cool white lighting. The meat effect’s on my skin, pale and grey.  I never was one for self harm, but I had to try. From the slightest of scratches to cutting through skin down to fat. Nothing. No juice.  A few rounds of googling human anatomy and some trial and error later, I find only black where my deep femoral arteries are meant to be. As my last resort I try to find my carotids but at this point I don’t even consider writing a note just in case it works. The black greets me. Dewy almost.

It still hurts, though. The pain is secondhand, but present. Pressing the edge against my neck feels wrong and it takes a few tries to fight the remnants of my self-preservation instincts. In the end stabbing it sideways into my neck and pulling forward seems to work best. My head slumps to the side. The perspective shifts. 

The bathroom’s upside down and sideways. Distant pain throbbing on the left side of my head. This is humiliating. The unheated tiles cool me. One third of the neck is still attached to the head. Feeling around the edges there’s only black. Pushing the head around. The movements. it’s not meant to move like this, I’m not meant to see my body from this weird third-person angle. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Eyes closed, readjusting the head makes me dizzy. It keels over if I don’t hold it in place. I take off my pants, fold them and use them as a pillow. Phone. The angle is awkward but in the screen the black reaches for itself over and over,  connecting the neck and the head back together. Slow. Pressing them together doesn’t seem to make it faster. 

The life of a Craig Tucker is not worth living, but I’m forced to do so anyway. I’ve been forced for a long time. Living with the assumption that I was still hanging around out of my own free will. That I could exit at any moment. The black still reaching for itself. Under my fingertips fixing my damage. Proving I was stupid to think I’d ever been right about anything. That I had a choice. This is unfair. The whole of my torso is compressing in on itself. The first hiccup escapes me. Then another. Cry about it. The tears building feel like warm water on ice. Knees to my chest, head keels over sideways with the rest of the body to join in on the fetal position. What is there to lose at this point? Might as well cry my eyes out. Hugging myself isn’t enough. It never has been. I can’t. I need someone with a soul. No-one deserves that fate. It’s always been like this. I will always be like this. 

In my boredom I try fiddling with the gap of the neck. Finger goes in, hand goes in. Putting my phone in there and fetching it seems dumb. So I reach for the toilet paper roll, take a few pieces and make a ball of it. I put that into the neck, reaching in deep, maybe up to my lungs. The angle is uncomfortable. Grab the switchblade off the floor. Pull the shirt up. My nipples are grey. Jesus fuck, whatever.

Inhale.

One, two, three. 

I stab the blade between my ribs. Breathe in. Slide my stomach open. Breathe. Breathe. Keep breathing. The blade on the floor. I heave through the worst of it along with the nagging panic at the back of my head. Hand in. It’s cold. This’d make a good picture. Album cover maybe. After a bit of searching around I can’t find anything so I hide another piece of toilet paper in the stomach way and try the neck. Either I’m bad at searching for things blind or the toilet paper’s passed onto a better place. 

The house shakes as the front door slams shut. This situation would make for  an epic prank if I had someone to prank. Michael, maybe? The last message he sent was a few days ago. I don’t want to know what he wants. Playing victim here is fucking pathetic. Boo hoo, sucks my head’s falling off, now whose fault is that? Sucks that I have no-one to send these cool headless bathroom pictures I managed to colour correct on my phone. I have nothing, no-one, of my own doing. Throw a pity party on the floor like an angsty fucking teenager, yeah, good idea. 

The bright fluorescent light of the bathroom blinds me but I can’t stop staring at it. TV’s turned on downstairs. Might as well test if my eyes have a stupid regeneration skill as well. Jesus fucking christ, this is pathetic. I’d really kill myself about this if I could. 

”How long are you going to be in the bathroom for?” Ruby calls from behind the door. 

”For the rest of my life. Use the downstairs toilet”

When was the last time I was meat? Vague memories of scraped knees, drunken teenage bullshit and accidental cuts, sure. Is everyone like this but no-one’s just not telling me? The thought about everyone and everything lying about human’s innards may be the second dumbest thought of the day. Right after thinking I could ever have what I want in life. This could be some sort of karmic revenge. Then again I’m not that special. Do things like this just happen to people; do relatively normal parents have kids that can’t die, just to have another child that is completely normal? What makes me so special to be like this?

Time’s up. The skateboarding chicken is replaced by the black screen and the battery icon. I try getting up. The head’s a little bit wiggly but it stays put enough. I piss and consider brushing my teeth but decide against it due to the shakiness.

 I’m not meat. The same Craig stares back at me as four hours ago, with his greyish sclera and under eyes. A crooked line on his neck reaches from right to left. Half an inch wide and the edges ragged and dry. Mirror-Craig moves like I do. Angles his head around like I do. Even without my brown eyes and olive skin. Even if he’s a pale imitation of a living thing. He is me. And for a moment I grieve the loss.

Phone to charge. Maybe I could go for a smoke, at least lung cancer won’t be a problem. What is there left to do anyway? Everything? On this god forsaken planet where the only thing I wanted has been denied from me. 

 It’s a Radiohead type of day.