Brown Water

It was Wednesday. I had not walked out of my apartment building since Saturday. My trip out into the cold, bitter air was not one that I had wanted to take, but I was officially out of booze and cigarettes, and I had finally gotten the energy to look around for some change. Plus, I was beginning to smell like shit- my clothes hadn't been washed in God knows how long, and I was running out of long-sleeved shirts.
As I stepped into the gray, hazy atmosphere of Baker Street, I quickly pulled the hood of my hoodie onto my head, tucking my long, dark brown hair into it.
The only other person who I saw was an old lady who was coming out of Oscar's Butchery holding a white, paper bag. She looked a little disturbed, and kept pulling at her scarf that was loosely tied around her neck.
"Poor old lady," I thought to myself. I averted my eyes and focused back to the ground quickly making my way down the street.
The sticky aroma of steam mixed with the sweet scent of laundry detergent greeted me as I pushed open the heavy door to the Laundro-Mat.
Good- the room was completely empty.
The washing machines were so small in this laundro-mat.
I hated it.
It took me more time to stuff my clothes into the machine than it took to actually wash them.
After about ten minutes of arranging and rearranging, I finally managed to get every single article of clothing in and successfully close the door.
It was time for my favorite part- sitting and watching my clothes swirl around and around, turning the clear liquid into brown water.
The soft "swooshing" sound that the washer made calmed my over-anxious nerves, putting my into a semi-calm state of being.
A state of being that I rarely felt.
I watched the water begin to slowly turn the color brown- my eyes started to droop. Even though I tried desperately to keep them open, I failed.
At once, a picture of his face overwhelmed me.
He was clearer this time. I could make out his defined features: his square jaw, his high cheek bones, his piercing blue eyes. Oh my God......those eyes.

After I finished drying my laundry, I scurried back to my apartment- room 901- and went straight to my knife drawer.
It took me several minutes to decide which knife I wanted to use- I ended up choosing my favorite, the one with the sharpest blade.
I walked slowly down the hall, letting the adrenaline seep into my pores. The handle of the knife felt like heaven in my hands. My mouth began to water, my head began to swirl.
I pushed the sleeves of my shirt up so that they were just above my elbows, my skinny, scarred arm completely visible.
I ran the hot water in the sink and watched as the knife drew a beautiful ruby red line across my wrist. The blood began to quickly decorate my arm, falling into the sink like tears, turning the swirling, clear water into brown.
As the kife passed over my skin, I instantly felt relieved. Exaustion quickly took over. I stopped the water and went over to the medicine cabinet to pull out tape and gauze.
After I wrapped up my wrist, I went into the kitchen to pull out a bottle of wine that I had bought at Manny's grocery while waiting for my laundry to dry. I managed to pop the cork and make it over to my couch.
I collapsed.
The wine was bitter, but it tasted so sweet.
A heavy dizziness quickly embraced me, encouraging sleep.
I thought about how I didn't actually buy any food at the grocery store today.
I thought about how I hadn't eaten in three days.
I thought about all of the things that I needed to do, but I didn't feel like doing them.
When had I become so incredibly unraveled? When had I lost it?
And then I remember him.
A tear slowly dribbled down my cheek and once again I fell into darkness with his face
staring at me.

Sloan Waters

I awoke to the sound of dripping water and the rancid smell of puke. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel my sticky, rejected left-overs squished between my cheek and the floor. Waking up with your face in your own throw-up is pretty disgusting, but not having the energy to get up and wash it off is even worse. My lips were cracked and dry and my head felt like a thousand knives were being jabbed into it. I could already feel that this was going to be a great day..
I finally managed to sit up, my eyes still closed. I sat there in the middle of the floor for about ten minutes until the persistant sound of dripping water began to feed my growing headache. I opened my eyes and pulled myslef into a standing position. The noise that my leaky kitchen faucet was making kept me from cleaning up the mess on my floor.
My kitchen counter was littered with various papers, empty beer cans and wine bottles. I ignored this mess and headed straight for the sink. As I tightened the water knob, I decided that I needed a cigarette.
After about five minutes of searching through the various mounts of bottle caps, I found my lighter and lit my last cigarette.
I inhale....heaven.
I made my way over to my torn-up couch and collapse, taking in another breath of smoke.
That is when I catch a glance at my bare wrist. I usually have on long-sleeves but this morning I happened to wake up in a T-shirt...which I really needed to change out of.
My wrist is tattooed with various scars, some thick, some thin, some jagged, some straight. They are all the color of white, the new skin only raised just slightly. My newest cut just beginning to form a scab.
I take in another breath and cover my wrist with my other hand. I lean back on my couch and clos my eyes. Instantly, I see his face.
He is vivid; he looks so real I want to reach out and grab him.
I take another puff of my cigarette.
He is still there...smiling.
When I open my eyes, though, he vanishes, leaving me alone on my beat-up couch with my throw-up in my hair and scars on my wrist.
At this painful realization, I throw my cigarette butt onto the floor and smush it with my bare foot.