Excerpt: Silent Tears

*may be triggering*

I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. I could feel it building up inside me, felt it tearing at my heart, by lungs, my chest, and I knew if I opened my mouth I’d yell horrible things, terrible things that would destroy any chance of things getting back to how it used to be.

Instead I turned and ran, back to the summer house where it was safe, slamming the door behind me as I threw myself into the pile of cushions in the corner.

I don’t know how long I sat there, rocking myself, hugging my knees close to my chest in a pathetic attempt to stop the scream from tearing out of my body. After an eternity had passed I started to become more aware of the summer house: the old posters of bands that had used to mean something to me; a small table, barely big enough to hold a plate of food, where I would come to eat when I wanted to be alone; a box of paper, stickers and sparkly bits of ribbon that I used to make cards; a pencil case...

Hardly realising what I was doing, I reached over and picked up the pencil case, zipping and unzipping it rhythmically as I rocked back and forward, back and forward. As I played with the zip pull it slipped from my fingers, spilling the contents of the case into my lap.

I swore as the pencils, pens, pencil sharpener, ruler and a pair of compasses fell into my lap, then swore again as I felt tears on my cheeks and realised the simple act of dropping some pens had pushed me over the edge and made me cry.

Angrily I grabbed the fallen stationery and started stuffing it back into the case, tears blurring my vision as I did. I swore again as I reached down again and grabbed the compasses, their sharp point digging into my finger and drawing blood. In a burst of anger I threw the compasses across the room as I stuck my finger in my mouth to suck it. The taste of blood in my mouth made me feel slightly nauseous, and I yanked my finger out and tried to get a crumpled tissue out of my pocket instead to wrap around it.

I lifted my hand up and squeezed the end of my finger where the metal had jabbed into my skin. The blood oozed up, forming a smooth, shiny red bubble on the surface of my skin. I watched, mesmerised by the rich colour, and realised with a shock that I felt calmer all of a sudden.

I squeezed my finger some more, willing more blood to come up to the surface. My finger throbbed in protest but I ignored the pain, fascinated by the beautiful ruby coloured liquid.

After a few minutes the beauty faded as the blood began to dry, the process making the smooth red surface of the drop of blood wither away into a small, flat, reddy brown pancake. I closed my eyes as I felt tears well up again, but strangely, I didn’t feel the anger returning. I was tired, worn out, fed up with fighting all the time... but I didn’t feel as angry.

I hugged my knees to my chest again, this time to keep myself warm rather than to stop myself from screaming, and curled up in a ball on my side in the pile of cushions. I needed to think.