September 5th 2012, 10:05 am, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin
He allowed the knife-point to touch his arm tenderly, almost lovingly, softly letting its polished blade slide lightly and harmlessly across his wrists, along the inside of his forearm, then completing the circuit by crisscrossing the palms of his slightly trembling hands. Thin white furrows of disturbed skin left a flaky trail marking the blade's shallow, meandering path. No blood, no pain, just a quick macabre distraction from the ceaseless train of thoughts, anxieties and problems that poured through his mind in the manner of a mountain stream flowing swift and swollen from a long winter's snow melt. Jed never fully understood his fantasy fixation with self-harm. He had never actually broken skin. He just mused. He just imagined. He just "practiced."
?
Jed had long ago come to the conclusion that it was the Critic he was hiding from during these episodes – always the Critic. That incessant inner voice of "ought" which served as a constant evaluator of his thoughts, deeds, and motives. On his better days, his rational mind thought that it understood where the Critic had come from. On his better days, his rational mind thought that at the very least it should be able to offer up a fair resistance to the Critic's influence by now. But, all days weren't better days and the mind was not always a rational creature. Jed knew from experience that his beautiful brain could lie in green pastures as a docile lamb or howl at the moon like a ravenous wolf. Today, his mind was howling and for reasons beyond his understanding, the Critic was shouting and demanding his attention much in the same way a nineteenth century hawker of snake oil vied for the attention of passersby at the county fair.
Jed's eyes returned to the shining 440 steel blade poised over his wrist, waiting to begin another pass.
He had read all of the self-help books and had watched Dr. Phil. Jedidiah Matthews had tried it all. Still, it would always come back to this – this desire for distraction, this desire for mental rest, this desire for escape.
, thought Jed.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He allowed himself to go numb. He knew this feeling, the numbness born of soul–weariness that muted the voice of the Critic, but also left him feeling strangely vulnerable. These were the scariest times; times when he thought he could almost do it. These were the times when, in total mental and emotional exhaustion, Jed shoved all the voices and sensations to the side and gave up the will to care anymore. In this state of mind anything was possible. Jed wasn't a fool. He knew that men had lost their careers in such a state. Men had lost their families.
Men had lost their lives.
His breathing slowed and the tension in his shoulders finally began to release. The voice of the Critic faded into buzzing white noise at the back of his mind. There was only numbness, now. Slowly and in an increasingly calm and detached state, Jed watched as his hand lowered the blade, inch by inch, until the fine tip rested against the white skin of his inner forearm.
Then he kept on pushing.
The sharpened blade slid silently and unhurriedly into his skin at a point about six inches above the wrist. Jed watched in rapt fascination as the blade stayed itself, a quarter inch into his flesh. It seemed as if the arm belonged to someone else; as if it was far away and he watched the whole scene in the manner of an objective scientist watching a distant quasar through a telescope.
One small bead of blood began to run from the puncture forming a small rivulet running down Jed's arm, slowly descending toward the elbow. He watched the stream descend slowly and lazily with that same feeling of numbed, detached coolness. When it reached the elbow, the blood pooled briefly into one single drop, then dripped silently from his arm. Jed watched the drop fall in what seemed like slow motion to his dulled senses until it sloshed noiselessly onto the pile of notes he had spread out before him, earlier.
The creation of the tiny, puddled mess woke Jed out of his morbid reverie, blinking and shaking his head in the short, quick manner in which one would displace a pesky fly.
Reaching behind him, he quickly grabbed a tissue and began the process of cleaning off his bloodied arm. A second tissue, this one doused with hand sanitizer stung painfully as it more thoroughly erased all passage of the thin, crimson river. Finally, a hastily constructed bandage formed of tissue and masking tape covered the small puncture. It would have to do for the moment. Thankfully, Jed had worn long sleeves today.
, Jed rehearsed again in his mind as he stood up from his desk. Now was the time to pull it together. Now was the time for one last look in the mirror and a fresh stick of gum. Now was the time to step out of his office, shake hands and kiss babies.
Now was the time to step into the pulpit and preach God's Holy Word.
