Page 3 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but it doesn’t work. Panic stirs under my ribs. I must have hit my head, that would explain the blood on my forehead, and the dizziness.

Or maybe the faintness is from my condition. That would be more likely, I try to reason with myself.

I manage to stand, slowly finding my balance as I make my way to the en suite. When I reach the mirror I stop, staring at my reflection.

The girl looking back is undeniably me, but somehow not. Blood is smeared across my face and chest, not only fresh from the cut above my brow but older too.

Whose blood is it?

I don’t feel hurt enough for there to be this much.

My white hair hangs in a tangled mess, strands knotted with bits of leaves and dirt. My skin is pale, my lips drained of colour, my green eyes wide and glassy. I look as though I’ve seen a ghost.

I look as though I could be one.

The sight disquiets me and tells me nothing.

I turn away, pressing both hands to my face and shutting my eyes, willing the truth to come through the haze.

What happened to me?

Too many questions and not a single answer. I try to think, truly think, but nothing comes. My mind remains blank, and the pressure in my skull builds until the pain becomes unbearable. At one point, I have to grip the edge of the vanity to keep myself from collapsing.

I push the thoughts aside, if only for a moment, because all I can think about is getting under a shower, as if it might lift this weight from my skin.

I feel filthy, not just on the surface, but deeper, as though something inside me has been stained.

It’s a feeling I can’t name. I want to scream, to cry, to break something apart, and yet the same question circles back to me,why?

I peel the dress off slowly, and step into the walk in shower.

My hand trembles as I adjust the water. I usually prefer it hot, but today I turn it slightly cooler, hoping the shock might clear my head and cut through the fog that has settled there.

I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting it run over me. For a while I just stand there, unmoving, until eventually my gaze drifts to the bottles lined along the shelf, the shampoo, the conditioner, the scrubs and gels.

They’re all familiar, yet at the same time distant. I don’t remember choosing them, I don’t remember opening half of them, and I’m not even sure I’ve ever liked some of these brands. I could swear a few weren’t here last night, yet they are already half empty.

Once I’ve scrubbed my scalp and rinsed the blood from my body, a faint sense of cleanliness returns.

I squeeze the water from my hair, step out of the shower, and wrap myself in towels, one around my body, another twisted through my hair. When I catch my reflection in the mirror again, the cut on my forehead is still bleeding quite badly.

I take the first aid kit from under the sink and bring it back into the bedroom. Every step is agony, as if I’m walking on glass.

I lower myself onto the bed, and begin cleaning my feet with antiseptic. The sting hurts and I bite my lower lip, only letting go when it starts to ease.

Carefully, I wrap each foot in gauze and stand, carrying the kit with me as I cross the room to the vanity. I ease into the chair and set the box down beside me.

The wound above my brow is worse than I’d realised. It will most certainly require stitches. I clean it as best I can and suck in a breath as the alcohol touches the exposed skin.

It is utterly absurd. I’m covered in cuts, bruises, dried blood, and I can’t recall a single detail of how it happened.

I need to remember.

There has to be something, an image, a sound, that stayed with me.

What is the last thing I can recall?

My head throbs again, worse than before, and I have to let it go, at least for now.