I was inside the bathroom, balancing blood on the back of my hand when there was a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” I asked.

He mumbled something. I balled up a tissue and placed it on the cuts and it drank like a vampire bat.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

Another mumble.

“I can’t hear you, buddy. Speak up.”

The tissue clung to my skin, so I used my free hand to slide the razor blade from the counter, open the drawer and slip it into the slit of the small tin box meant to house such things. It clanked inside, landing on top of the others.

“Can I have some milk?” he asked.

“I turned your show on,” I said. “Why don’t you watch that?”

I plopped the blood-soaked tissue into the toilet. On the counter, prepped and ready, were the Band-Aids. One by one, I plucked them between my fingers and stretched them over the three small cuts. I had gone deeper this time. That was on purpose. This morning, the walls of the rooms were tilting slightly more inward, and the ceiling in the house was a little lower. Now I felt open, like I could stretch, breathe.

The door clicked. The room sighed.

 “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh, I’m fine, buddy. I trimmed the lemon tree, so—”

“What tree?”

“Stupid yard work, that’s all.” I scanned around for blood. There was a stream in the sink and droplets seeped through the Band-Aids.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, no—”

“How?” he asked.

“I didn’t, you know—it was a thorn on the lemon tree.” He was six years old with purple bags under his eyes; everyone on my dad’s side of the family had them. They made him look sad even when he wasn’t. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I sat on the toilet and tried to look at him. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Can I have milk?” he asked.

“Sure. Of course. I’ll be right there,” I said and he left.

My mouth tasted like sweat. I had pushed down on the razor too hard this time. The pain murmured through my arm and into my chest. It would take time for the blood to clot, which is why it dripped brilliant red onto the white tile floor; after so many cuts, its brightness still shocked my senses awake like a house fire in the dead of night. I dipped my toe in it, swirled it around. This would stain. She would find it. It was the lemon tree, I’d tell her, and she’d believe me or she wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure anymore.

My doctor said I should learn my triggers and live in the moment. Right now, my little buddy wanted milk, so I will pour him some in a little plastic cup, sit next to him on the couch and watch his favorite show; maybe he’ll put his head on my arm and maybe he’ll tell me a joke that doesn’t make sense and we’ll laugh and all the while, every second of every minute, I’ll hate myself and wonder why this splendid, fleeting moment isn’t enough.

– Chase Holland