The following is a part of a 30-day writing challenge Escapril started by author Savannah Brown. (TW: self-harm, loss, gore)
They told me I shouldn’t feel a thing like somehow the ‘not feeling’ would make it easier.
Fifteen minutes to make 2 halves of one whole.
Precision. Speed. Efficient and painless they promised, as if “waking from a dream after not knowing you had been asleep”.
“It will all be over soon”
this separation is never that. It is arduous and agonizingly slow. The proverbial pull of a bandage coming away from your wound. A pain you endure with gritted teeth and shut eyes, hoping that when it is over the scab underneath is healed completely.
But mine breaks and bleeds and no matter how long it has been I can’t seem to stop picking at it. After all don’t I deserve to feel this?
Paper cups. Cold leather. Crinkling paper.
Teddy Grahams & Apple Juice.
If I dwell long enough I can hear the echoes of my own screams rattling around in my skull. Chilling my bones long after the sound had ceased.
“A dream” they had said.
“Everything went well”
“The separation was successful”
I didn’t feel a thing.