DESCRIPTION
During a particularly depressing time and trying to find a way to cleanse myself of shame...well this story came to be. *Caution, could be graphic.* [631 words]
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
46 year old wife and mother who is trying to put her past behind her. [July 2006]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13) Alien Within (Poetry) What comes with self examination. [15 words] Angel Of Death (Non-Fiction) A corrupted childhood contaminates the present-writing purges, but just slightly...*Caution, could be considered graphic* [706 words] [Horror] Dark Anger (Short Stories) A follow up, sort of, to Darkest Fairytale, sort of. [815 words] Darkest Fairytale (Short Stories) A story written out of the depths of confusion so it's a bit confusing to follow. *Could be considered graphic* [1,571 words] [Drama] Ending (Poetry) Just a few questions I asked once upon a time ago... [21 words] Escaping Reality (Short Stories) This is an account of a real event that has a fictional ending...the ending that I know she wanted. [981 words] God's Retribution (Short Stories) A follow on story written in early January. God is displeased and one child suffers the consequence. [425 words] [Spiritual] Remember...Do You Remember? (Genres) A long prose that asks tough personal questions which require deep internal self-examination to find the answers...if answers can be found. [271 words] [Mind] Seeking God (Short Stories) This story was written in December when a vision of the god from my childhood came crashing into my present. [767 words] [Spiritual] Taken Fetus (Non-Fiction) Ripped from within her. [697 words] Tempest: Calming The Storm (Short Stories) Inner turmoil ... can it be calmed? *Caution, could be graphic* [771 words] The Frustrating Switch (Short Stories) What happens when stress takes me beyond the breaking point? This is glimpse into my world... [667 words] [Psychology] When I Was Eight (Genres) A long three part prose about a dark desert night when a child was scared into submission. [501 words]
Washed In The Blood Monica L Sprague
I sit solemnly upon the cushion in the window seat, the grey sky a cold reminder of my darkened heart. The wind blows steady, bitter and strong. Tumbleweeds fly across the vacant lot across the street, the blowing dust leaves the ground looking anguished and drab. Lost is the road below me, gone the mums and the irises. Only the dust and the tumbleweeds remain. I wonder about the blowing tumbleweeds, their branches a tangled mire of thorn. I imagine standing in the middle of the road, the wind slapping my face, the dust stinging my legs. I long for the thorns of the tumbleweeds to slash at my arms, to rip my legs, and tear into the flesh of my face. Bloodied and battered and beaten, I would stand against the wind and become sand blasted. Would I be clean then? Is sand blasted the same as washed in the blood? Would the baptism of sand represent anything pure and innocent?
Suddenly a rain drop splashes against the window pane. I’m brought back from the distant longing of my heart. I watch through the window as the huge rain drops pound upon the ground; quickly the dirt becomes mud and clay. I lean my head upon the pane of glass. A thought comes into my mind. I begin to bang the side of my head against the pane, softly at first; moments pass. The rain beats against the pane, my head beats in rhythm to the pounding of the drops upon the roof. A crack, slowly emerging in the window pane, I feel the warm trickle of blood slowly trickle down my temple. I reach up gingerly and touch the small gash, warm and slightly sticky; I place the tip of my bloodied finger into my mouth. The taste somewhat familiar, I am driven.
I get up from the window seat and walk to the bathroom. Searching under the sink, I move the Kleenex box that sits upon the steel blade of the razor blade. I slowly lift the blade and watch as the light softly glints off the cold steel. I take a deep breath. Placing the blade on my arm, I very softly slide it across my wrist, nothing. There is barely a visible scratch; no blood to be seen. I close my eyes, hand shaking slightly. I push the blade a bit harder into my flesh and slash, quickly in one fluid motion. There, just toward the last of the movement … blood. Slight, barely perceptible yet it lends strength. Feeling braver, I slice again, same wrist, just below the original slice. Deeper now, the blood begins to pool from the gash, pool and then drip. It’s the drip that I stare at now, the drip that falls from my wrist onto the floor beneath me. I watch as another drop falls, and another. It thrills and excites me. How many drops of blood to pool? How many slashes does it take to get enough drops of blood? Washed in the blood.. I slash again and again and before I realize it, I have five cuts upon my wrist, two relatively deep. And yet, there is no pain.
I sit upon the toilet and take the blade to my other wrist. I’m numb and not totally present as I slice through the flesh another four times. Now and only now I set aside the razor. I place my hands between my legs, wrists up so I can watch the blood ooze forth from the wounds, I stare down at the floor, drop upon drop falling swiftly to the floor; the pool of blood between my feet beginning to flow slightly away from me. “Washed in the blood …” I whisper. There is comfort now. Peace finds me and I smile.
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"Its a good essay i must say. The words are strongly used.Good command of language and description given. " -- Cherie.
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