Louisa hurt herself. It was ok; she didn’t feel anything.
The knife cut through flesh. Before that happened, she was at the doctor’s office for PET scans of her brain. The results indicated little activity compared to normal people’s results.
All she thought about was why everybody had to compare her to others. He asked her whether she’d experienced a traumatic event, which could have triggered such a state of mind. She answered that she had divorced her husband a few weeks ago but didn’t explain that it was for his own good.
Her husband was all a woman could ever dream of – handsome, kind and loyal. Unfortunately, her view on life changed when she was preparing fried eggs one morning. The eggs reminded her of a painting that she did in which she mixed yellow with orange to paint the sun. The frying eggs soon became scrambled, but she didn’t like scrambled eggs, so they burned in the pan. If she had done something about it, it wouldn’t have happened, but something else would’ve happened–the eggs would’ve rotted. She decided that she didn’t want them to rot. It wasn’t just any decision. In fact, a world had fallen apart–her major internal nociceptors were no longer sending signals to her brain–just like that.
She was nervous and believed that nihilism had physically invaded her and punished her with sexual anhedonia. She masturbated to James Deen pornos, using everything possible, including her father’s golf club, but she felt nothing. She didn’t tell her doctor or ex-husband. The doctor had wanted her to come in for more tests, but there was no point–never had been.
At home, she grabbed her kitchen knife and cut her forearm. Paper cuts used to hurt, her first tattoo hurt, but this–didn’t.
Hopelessly, she opened her childhood treasure chest in which she’d stored all her favourite CDs. How could she forget about all the music that had shaped her art–the only thing that really defined who she was? She listened to one CD after the other and eventually found herself shedding a tear or two.
Love, at first sight, was possible, so were miracles. Something in her stirred during a Nick Cave song; it could be the only stir she’d ever feel again, so she began to paint.
She cut deeper into her forearm, grabbed a clean brush and painted her first few strokes as her blood was dripping onto the surface of the canvas.
She must be dehydrated. Her blood was drying fast; she had to add some saliva to keep it moist.
The smell of iron made her hungry; moreover, she felt aroused and couldn’t help but touch herself on the floor next to her painting.
The blood, still oozing out of her wound, had stained her clothing and the carpet. She didn’t want to waste that blood, so she brushed her wound against the canvas to add some shadow.
Finally, she took off her dress and underwear and smeared the blood across her breasts and stomach. The moment nausea kicked in, she grabbed hold of her painting and pressed her knees tightly against her chest.
by P-chan (c) 2016
