Trigger warning: self harm.
Back story: For a large part of my life, a companion has been appearing in my mind, guiding me through stressful times. I could describe him, for it is unmistakably a male figure, as an angel, as he has wings of a kind. But an angel, he made clear, he definitely is not.
My companion looks at me with his soft caramel eyes, concern-filled. His hands are folded as if in prayer.
“The scabs barely have time to heal before you start worrying them again. You are like a vulture, pecking, pecking, pecking into a rotting carcass.
I sit still opposite him, unable to defend myself. I stare at my fingers… red… clammy. Blood red.
The scabs I have worried loose, burn, throb, ooze. They are open flesh. I blot my fingers on a white tissue and the maroon turns tomato red. Later the swatches will turn brown, I know. Eroded copper.
I touch my tongue to my fingers. It tastes like nothing else. Who said blood tastes like copper? Why would anyone lick copper?
He: “Why do you do it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Maybe because I am rotting on the inside.”
He takes my bloodied hand into his, long fingers enfolding mine. “That is not what I said.” His touch is tender, his voice even more so. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
Me: “Of course it hurts. It hurts like hell!”
He: “Is that why you do it? To feel the hurt, the pain?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
He: “Is it the blood? Do you like seeing, feeling, blood on your fingers?”
Me: I shrug. “I guess I do, otherwise I would not find a perverse satisfaction in it, would I?”
He: “How does it make you feel?”
Me: “Are you a shrink now?”
He smiles patiently, gently.
Me: “I told you, I don’t know.”
He: “But you must feel something.”
Me: “Yes, I do. I guess the point is that I feel. I feel something. I feel the pain. I feel in control.”