100 Themes, variation 2
Gooood Lord, it's very long. I just went for it. Full steam ahead! Aye aye Captain!
I quite enjoyed writing this, the ending is piss poor, kind of unraveled because I wanted to keep writing but if I keep writing it kind of stops being a Blood theme and moving onto what it's all really about.
Points if you can guess? ;D It's oh-so obvious but I enjoy where it's going so I might carry on with this one and see where I end up.
TL;DR?
17. Blood
The sight of blood knocked me sick; it brought waves of nausea, cold sweats and eventual unconsciousness. My Mother says I was forever being clumsy when I was younger, scraping my knees and gashing my head open. My Father thinks I’m a sissy girl.
Any mention of blood makes my upper lip sweat, the sight of anyone else’s brings clanging to my ears and bile to my throat. The sight of my own blood is all of the above plus me eventually passing out in an ungraceful manner. So here I am staring at my index finger pouring with blood, doing quite well I thought.
My upper lip was damp, as was my forehead and I could hear a familiar clanging and buzzing in my ears. I shook it off as best I could as I quickly grabbed the kitchen towel from the counter, wrapping it many times around the slice as tightly as I could. The blood quickly soaked through the four wraps and a little shrill panicked noise escaped my lips. The buzzing returned but I began to sing nonsensical sounds. Laa’s and hee’s were sung at the top of my voice as I raced around the kitchen in the hope it would help.
I noticed my phone lying on the counter and I thought about ringing for help. My Mother would just chastise me; shout at me for being so careless with a knife. My Father would call me a sissy girl. My sister lived in another County and all friends within available radius would ridicule me for such a silly cut. The thought of ringing an ambulance crossed my mind as the tea towel was now soaked through but again it could be nothing and I wouldn’t want to be a time waster.
I didn’t realise I was singing so loudly until I stopped when I then heard the heavy hammering of a fist on my flat door. I slowly swayed across to the door, grinding my jaw as the blood was seeping through the towel now.
“Hello?” I asked, opening the door wide, hiding my covered hand. A tall man looked down at me, thirties, rough dark hair, dark eyes and angular facial features. His face fell straight, no hint of any emotion. I thought he maybe looked a little amused though.
“Are you okay?” His accent was rough too, masculine but rough sounding. I nodded, hoping he couldn’t see how pale I probably looked, or how sweaty I was feeling. He gave me a quick once over, his eyes giving nothing away. “I heard you singing, loudly.” I forced a small smile of ‘Sorry’ and added a nod too. “Do you often do that?” I shook my head, no, afraid to talk to him as I felt nausea ripple through me. A trickle of blood escaped from the towel and slicked its self down my arm. The crimson bead was the last straw; I’d been brave for long enough now.
The buzzing in my ears grew louder, and I could see the man in front of me talking but his words grew fuzzier and my eye lids felt heavy. I don’t remember falling, but I remember a firm grasp holding me from somewhere, slowly picking me up and carrying me.
I hadn’t been out long, minutes, if that. I was now lying on the sofa though, head propped up with a cushion while someone was touching my hand. I rolled my head over to see the man crouched before me, wiping away the blood from my finger with some tissue from my coffee table. It stung like hell but he was gentle in his ways. A small smile was sitting on his lips, he looked up and the smile spread a little further. “You should look away,” he finally said as he stopped wiping.
I gave a little glance down to my finger and made a small retch sound. The cut looked deep, not stitch worthy but messy all the same, a clean slice at the top of my index finger.
“First aid kit?” He asked me. I blinked away a few nauseous thoughts and motioned toward the bathroom across the way.
“Bathroom cabinet.” I mumbled, feeling less fuzzy and more embarrassed. I swung my legs back round and planted them on the floor, sitting upright on the sofa. I took a quick peep at the man in my bathroom, his attire was a suit, a store bought, poorly fitting black thing that he looked so uncomfortable in. I saw a black tie was loosened around his neck as he came back through.
“So, you don’t like blood then?” He asked as he crouched down before me again.
“Never have done,” I replied, not daring to look into his eyes, the embarrassment creeping onto my face. He opened the kit up and wiped the last of the blood away with a wipe, it stung and I made a fuss but he didn’t stir from his occupation. Finally a plaster was wrapped round the wound and he clicked the kit shut. Silently he rose to his feet and went to replace the kit in the bathroom; the man came back and slid the bloodied tissues into his suit pocket. My eye brows hitched up my head at this .
“Oh, oh don’t worry!” He replied to my widened eyes, “I figured I’ll bin them at my place, save you looking at them all the time.” I nodded, smiling a little at his thoughtfulness. “It’s not like I’m a vampire or anything,” He said with a nervous giggle on the end, like there was some big joke and I wasn’t getting it.
“So where do you live then?” I asked in my most coy-slightly-flirtatious voice.
“Here and there,” he replied breezily.
“Here?” I asked with a little too much hope in my voice. He smiled. Drat! He’d caught me flirting. I coughed and regained some composure. “I meant this building? The area? Town?” Jesus will you shut up! Just stop talking! Again a small smile played on his lips.
“Three doors down, Larry, the guy who owns it, has gone on a fishing trip and asked me to take care of his flat.” I nodded again, I had a faint idea of Larry, I could see a wispy old beard and a leather waistcoat. We’d never talked much, or at all except niceties about the news or weather. The man picked up the very wet and very soaked through tea towel and I retched.
“Do you want me to bin this? Put it in the washing machine? Burn it?” I retched again and felt sweaty all over. He dropped the towel into my waste paper bin and with his clean hand came over and forced my head down so I was looking at my feet. The clanging and chimes began to disappear and I could hear him again. “-deep breaths, deep breaths, push against my hand, deep breaths.” I sucked in some well needed air, pushing back against his hand until he let go.
“Please, get rid of it.” I leant back on the sofa, all this blood just for a small cut on my finger. I heard him tie the plastic bag in the waste paper basket up and lift it out.
“I’ll take it back to my place, bin it there.” For what felt the umpteenth time that day I nodded. “You really don’t like blood do you? You look really pale, pasty even.” I hadn’t even thought about how I was looking. I was wearing cheap blue jogging bottoms and an old grey t-shirt with a faded logo and numerous stains. I had mismatched socks on, one bright pink one yellow and my auburn hair was looped into a rough bun, frizz probably sticking out every where.
“I’ve never liked blood.” I rose to my feet and crossed my arms over my chest. “Childhood trauma or something, just can’t stand the sight of it.” I looked him in the eye. I was very grateful for his rescue, helping my in my hour of need. But he had just called me pasty and I wasn’t having that. I locked eyes with him for a moment, his dark inviting eyes were calculating something but as soon as the moment had come it had passed. I strode across to the door and stood by it, defiantly. “Thank you for all your help...”
“James,” He helped, filling in the space between us in a few easy strides. He was close now, so close I could feel his breath blowing the wisps of loose hair on my head. I felt the heat radiating from his body and those dark eyes looking down at me. Something was pulling me to him, some force making me look up into his beautiful dark eyes, down to his soft wet lips. My arms loosened and fell useless to my sides, but itching to run over his body, through his hair. I could feel my blood pounding in my ears, my mouth becoming dry, lips parting, closer, closer...
I then stepped back, arms instinctively crossing back over my chest. “Yes, well, thank you James, thank you for everything.” I was flustered now; I’d been caught off guard, vulnerable. I scowled at him and held my arm out, showing him the way to the corridor. A puzzle was playing out on his face, like he was trying to do a ten thousand piece jigsaw in his mind. His lips were moving slightly but no words were coming.
“Thank you.” I snapped, almost shoving him out the door, slamming it behind him. I’d feel guilty about it later, probably go over and apologise. Perhaps invite him to dinner somewhere, bottle of wine, back to my place...
I moaned out loud, what was my problem, what hold did he have over me? I stormed into the kitchen, snapped on a pair of marigolds, got a spray bottle of cleaner and a cloth and set about cleaning up the dots and drops of blood. I cursed his name through out, almost forgetting that it was blood that I was cleaning up.
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