I’m scared of losing meaning


Louisa hurt herself. It was ok. She didn’t feel anything. The knife simply cut through flesh. Before that incident, she was at her doctor’s office where he showed the PET scans of her brain, which indicated little activity compared to other people’s samples that he had on file. All she thought about was why everybody had to compare her to others. He asked her whether there had been any recent 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 one morning when preparing two fried eggs for breakfast. They reminded her of a painting that she did in which she mixed yellow with a little bit of orange in order to paint the sun. Soon the frying eggs became scrambled, but she didn’t like scrambled eggs, so they burnt on 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 merely 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.

Of course, she got nervous; she believed that nihilism had physically invaded her and that it was punishing her first with sexual anhedonia. She masturbated to a James Deen video, using everything possible, including her father’s golf club, but she felt nothing. Of course, she didn’t tell her doctor that part. He wanted her to come in for more tests, but there was no point, there never had been.

At home, she grabbed her kitchen knife and cut the inside of her forearm. Paper cuts used to hurt, her first tattoo hurt, but this cut 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. Love at first sight is possible, so are 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, but instead of wasting it she tried to add some shadow by brushing her wound against the canvas. 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. Deckard (c) 2016

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