*Warning: The following content contains material that may be triggering to some individuals.*
Sitting there on the floor of a cold porcelain bathtub, drunk and half-clothed, the daggers of freezing cold water pelted my chest. A frigid reminder that physically I was still alive, even if I didn’t want to be. The plastic wiring that once contained puka shells, now scattered across the bathroom floor and the tub, dangled from my neck. Dime sized drops of blood fell from my body but quickly vanished into nothingness as the water streaming down my bruised abdomen lead them to the drain. Having had consumed way too much alcohol, the origin of the blood could not be determined, but if I had to make a drunken hypothesis, it was either coming from my neck or my right hand, based purely on the forceful tug that had occurred earlier, the one that had destroyed the shelled necklace. Leaving it as broken as I was feeling in that moment. A thought floated through my mind like a quick moving cloud, “Either way, it’s not enough blood to worry about.” As much as I welcomed death, I was still terrified of it. Slowly tucking my chin into the comfort of my body, the weight of my own head becoming too much to bear, my gaze was forced on to the body that I had spent the evening abusing. My own. Just above my left wrist, three evenly spaced lines of week old scabbing that stretched from one side of my arm canvas to the other. A visual representation of the hurt I had endured the week prior, but also signified the fear I carried around actually putting an end to the misery. The other arm covered in bruising that could best be described as an abstract painting— impeccably blended purples, blues, reds, and yellows! I wore it proudly like a badge of honor— awarded to me by one of my best friends during a game of ARMS (Rules: taking turns—continue punching one another until someone gives up). Fairly basic concept and easy to follow along when intoxicated. Scanning further down my torso there was splotched bruising across my ribs and sides. These had to be from the swings I landed on myself with my paintbrush fists earlier that day. I was a destructive artist all alone in that empty apartment. It was getting harder to stay awake now, but taking one last glance at my masterpiece, I marveled, and thought to myself, “Perhaps now they will see the hurt.” My eyelids feeling heavier now.
The museum of heartbreak will now be closing, we will reopen again tomorrow at 9am. God willing.
Artist: Christian
Media Type: Body Art
Description: Abstract representation of repressed grief, trauma, and abandonment during the critical years of young adulthood.
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Okay, this is an intense expression of a searching soul! How vivid and impactful this description is, Christian. Argh! I read and reread it with high respect for you, Sir.
Doug