Crimson Tears
“It says that you're gonna die tomorrow unless I do something,” I told my father, who was glaring at me from the edge of my bed. “I don’t know what that means, I just have to do some stuff sometimes.” I didn't dare look at him. My eyes focused on the pink zebra print sheets that covered my shaky legs. My hands felt clammy and cold.
“This is horseshit,” my dad said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know.”
“This is crazy. Stop saying those things.”
“Daddy, I can’t. It’s just the voice in my head.”
“The voice? What voice?”
“I don't know where it came from! It's just there, telling me that unless I scratch my arm or do something to myself, you're gonna die tomorrow.”
“That’s horseshit.”
Salty tears dripped down my cheeks, and stung my sensitive skin. My dad walked out of the room as confused as I was. I didn't know what to tell him. Scratching myself, hitting my head against the wall. Somehow those things got the ideas out of my head that he was gonna die. They helped me stay calm. The physical pain took away the internal anxiety.
-----
My dad must’ve forgotten about that incident six years ago because we never talked about it again. Just like we never talked about Mom. Not talking about her was okay.  She died in a car accident before the voice crept into my mind. One day she was there; the next she wasn't. Then we put her in the ground and forgot about her. She was part of the past. But sometimes I heard my dad crying at night. I knew it was about her. I knew he was hurting. But he never spoke her name after we buried her.
The voice in my head told me day and night that my dad was going to die in some sort of dramatic way. Ever since my mother left the world, I couldn't get rid of these thoughts. I couldn't expel them. But since my dad didn't want to talk about the voice, I had to keep it inside. I knew I was crazy, but if I could keep the insanity to myself, everyone else would be okay; no one would have to worry about me. If I could keep the voice inside my head, if I could keep the scars on my arms hidden, everything would be okay.
“Jess, you ok?” A hand touched my shoulder, and my eyes fluttered open. I looked at the clock: 11:34 AM. I never slept in late, but I did today because I was up until 3 in the morning crying about my mom. My dad was crying about her, too, last night. I heard him throwing things in his room. He thinks I don't hear anything; he thinks I don't know anything about him.
“Yeah.”
“You really don’t seem like it.”
“I’m fine. Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I'm always fine. You don't have to worry about me.”
“I'm always worrying about you.”
"You don't have to. If you want breakfast, it’s downstairs.” He left me alone.
I didn't want breakfast. I stayed in bed. My pocket knife sat on my nightstand. My dad gave it to me at my mom's funeral. She gave it to him a few days before she died for their 14th anniversary. He got rid of a lot of her stuff, but he let me keep the knife.
I never used the knife. It just sat there on my nightstand. As I gazed at it, a thought popped into my mind. Maybe a new kind of pain could take away the pain I felt for my mother and the worries I had for my father. I reached for the knife. Flipping open the smallest blade on it, I rolled up my sleeve, and slashed my wrist. The blade didn't break the skin. I tried again. My hand seemed to slow down the closer the blade came to my wrist. I couldn't do it. I couldn't cut myself intentionally.
"Your Dad is gonna die unless you cut yourself, Jess." I wasn't alone anymore. The voice was coming back.
"That doesn't make sense," I said to myself, placing the knife back on my nightstand.
"Do you really want to find out tomorrow that you were wrong, and see your Daddy sprawled out on the floor?"
"No, just leave me alone, please." My eyes traveled back to the knife. My hands wanted to obey the voice, but my mind did not.
"Just cut yourself a few times. You were going to do it anyway. It'll feel better. Your mind won't be so clouded. No one will know." I grabbed the silver knife and clenched it in a fist. My nails dug into my skin. Tears threatened to jump out of my eyes.
"I'm crazy, aren't I?" I bit the inside of my cheek, chewed it hard enough so the tears from my eyes would stop falling. The knife in my hand stared at me.
"It'll save your dad. You know that."
"I guess I have to. I can't let him die."
"It's hard, but it's your job to save him. Keep him alive."
"I have to make sure he'll be alright."
I flipped open the blade again. This time I dragged it down my arm. My skin cried crimson tears. I drew a line parallel to the first. The stinging didn't bother me. Blood dripped down my arm, swirled on my skin, and rained onto the zebra striped sheets. My arm resembled a candy cane after a few more long cuts. My pale skin screamed against the violence of the red flowers blossoming up and down my arm.
The voice had gone away. I knew he'd be back though. He always came back. But my dad was safe for tomorrow, and that's all that mattered. The anxiety that had settled in the depths of my heart was lifted. My arms and hands felt wet, but before I could examine myself, the world fell into darkness.
-----
When I woke up, I was in a different bed. My pink zebra print sheets were replaced by scratchy thin white ones. There was a little window next to my bed, overlooking a graveyard. A stiff red armchair sat underneath the window. My bed was in the middle of the room, and there was a table next to me with a tray of food and a glass of water. Little posters hung on the white wall opposite of me. They said things like "Believe in yourself" and "Stay strong" in bright yellow letters. They didn't seem to fit in with the gnarled trees outside, the dead leaves on the pavement, and the old graveyard.
"Are you awake?" A voice entered the room. I tried to sit up, but my body was strapped to the bed. I noticed that there was a needle in my arm; my skin felt numb. The candy cane stripes were still there, but the wet blood was gone.
"Dad?"
"Jess, oh God, you're awake."
"Where am I?"
"The hospital."
"Why?"
"You don't remember?"
I stared at him.
"Jess, you almost killed yourself. You don't remember that?"
"But I'm not suicidal."
"You don't remember?"
"I just cut up my arm."
My dad was crying. "Jess, you cut up more than just your arm. I walked into your room, and your sheets were bloody. Your neck, arms, legs, face, hands, everything. There was more blood than skin visible on you. I-I-." His voice was cracking. "I thought you were dead. Jess, I can't lose you too."
I looked down and saw the scars on my hands and my other arm. My legs were covered by the sheets. I couldn't see anymore of my skin.
"I didn't do that. I only cut my one arm."
My dad was still crying, but all my emotions were void. I couldn't conjure a single word to comfort him. I couldn't make a single tear fall from my eyes. But I could feel the bumpy scars on my body. They stung, but I guess the IV was pumping some sort of medication into me to keep the pain from killing me. Another needle in my arm appeared to be replenishing the supply of blood I lost.
"It must've been the voice. He made me do all this," I muttered to myself.
"What voice?"
"In my head."
"There's a voice in your head?"
"There's been a voice in my head for six years."
Surprise shocked my father's face as if he had been electrocuted. His mouth moved, but no words fell out. They were stuck in the back of his throat. He looked down at the ground, then turned on his heel and walked out. Fire erupted within me. He was leaving me, just after he said he couldn’t lose me.
Before he walked out of the door, I said, "Fine. Walk away from me like you did six years ago. I've been worrying about you dying, but you died with Mom. You cut yourself off from me and the world. You don't give two horseshits about your own daughter, or you would stay with me right now. We could've talked about Mom. But we never did. You don't care about anyone except your dead wife!"
He stopped, his hand stuck on the doorknob, and turned his face towards me. His jaw was rigid; his eyes pierced my own.
"Don't you ever bring her up again."
My dad swung open the door, and slammed it shut. The fire inside me was still burning. I didn't know if or when he'd come back. I was alone again except for the needles in my arm, the obnoxious posters on the wall, the voice in my head, and the dead people rotting under the dirt outside my window.