oxblood

part one of two, where two nameless faces share a bond like no other. sensitive subjects: abuse, suicide

I look down at my feet amidst the grass, & there’s slick oxblood on my shoes.

· · ·

I look away, then back again, & the fresh rain has washed away the stains.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Oxblood, like many others, is a tough stain to rid. I should know.

· · ·

This time of day--the mingle between dusk & the late still of night--is where I dream. Sometimes, I fall into the deepest dreams, ones of soft silky sheets on a milky, summer’s day. Sometimes, I fall into the deepest nightmares. I cannot explain those.

Throughout the day, I wash off the night before with rain, tears, or an alchemic elixir of the two. Walking down Main St., I puff the smoke of my stubby cigarette into the grey veils of morning. Its sticky film seems to last until my dream-state. I stare at the faces passing by, not many. But the few souls that trickle past seem to scrunch their noses & breathe out rapidly as they quickly pace to where only they know. Every day, they seem to walk faster, breathe harder, scrunch tighter. I wonder if they, too, have scrubbed out the oxblood when the moon is still.

I drop the smoky stub on the concrete & dig my rubber sole into its ash. Surprisingly, it feels productive, almost as if I have sought it through completion. Technically, that is not untrue. My hair tickles my face in the wind, just my forehead, where it has grown wispy & shaggy. I pull my long, draping sleeves over my knuckles & shove them in my rough pockets. The air is cool; thin. Its chill makes my sandpaper skin rip against the side of my clothes.

· · ·

Dusk has come. I walk to the garden with another cigarette hanging from my pursed lips. The smoke dances in the air, its final performance of the night, twirling & bowing as it makes its exit off-stage. I bow back gracefully, respectively & drag the toe of my boots across it’s corpse. I look up, with squinted eyes, to stare at the dark clouds against the obsidian sky as the sun begins to leave them in the shadows, as if throwing a blanket over the world for the night. Sweet dreams.

By now, the chill has grown more aggressive, crisping the tip of my lips & jamming my joints. I don’t mind. Sometimes the chill, as painful as it can be, feels fresh & comforting. It’s hard for me to explain, but the chill is so imprisoning that it’s freeing. Sometimes I ramble to myself in the garden. 

Then I see her. 

· · ·

Hi. 

Hi. sniffle. 

Cold night tonight, eh? I can never tell if she’s crying. 

Yeah. 

sniffle. 

…

Shall we?

· · ·

I grab her hand & lead further into the garden, which turns into a field of wisping dead grass. Her hand is clammy, warming the peeling skin from my fingers. She smells like leather & dull cigarettes. I feel I might smell the same. It doesn’t bring back any memories.

I haven’t seen her face in years. That may be misleading, as I am beside her every night--we walk to the place, but I can’t make out her face. It is too dark in this cloudless, moonless town. Sometimes, we pass through the sea of wheat & glowing civilization warms us from miles away. Only then, can I see the outline of her small forehead, straight eyelashes, like a giraffe. Long, pointed noise, almost upturned like a baby doll. Sometimes, I can make out a glint in her black eyes, as they glance over at me, trying to make out my own features. But, even when I can’t define her, I can still taste the lead in my mouth: the oxblood, fuming up from her clothes, her shoes, her hands. It drips off her form, like a showerhead’s leftover water, dripping slowly into the drain. I feel it, slick, on my lips, in my teeth, on my tongue.

· · ·

Lately, it’s been harder for me to fall asleep. I know that every night, my fate is to see her, to walk hand in hand, to an everlasting past, present, & future.

I slowly slip my head to the side of the unmade mattress, peel one eye back from the edge, & reach down. The rough, damaged wood touches my hand. I slowly start to crawl onto the floor, pushing my torso & dragging my legs off of the mattress. I roll over and face the water-stained ceiling. The lightbulb trapped inside it’s frosted glass orb flickers awake with me. 

I lay on the floor for an hour. The only person who contacts me is my boss at the florist, where I cash out customers without looking them in the eye. No message from him yet, so I know it must be early. The curtains are so heavy, so dusty, I can’t see daylight. Only a tiny sliver of light has passed through a crack in the fabric, like a wrinkle in time, highlighting the tiny dust particles in the air from when I got out of bed. They dance, slowly, without sound, to the vibrations of life. Dust may very well be more alive than me.

I drag my body up off the ground & I feel its weight. I have grown extremely thin, but I feel the weight of my life. I feel the weight of my woes, my sorrows,  my evidential existentiality. I hobble to the room connected to mine, the bathroom, and turn on the low-pressure shower that spurts out slowly from the rusty head. I breathe out, but it still bears weight. My body, squeezed of moisture, is razor sharp from running the water to the point of boiling. I do anything I can to feel clean. The water hits my body and spurts off into steam, curling around the vent in the ceiling. It burns, cracks, & sears my raw edges, but I endure. 

No matter how many times I try, I cannot wash the oxblood off my skin. It’s stained, deep burgundy, within the small crevices of every fold.

· · ·

I remember when I first met her. But I can’t really remember between then & now. I recall leaning up against a soiled, wet bar, covered in sticky residue & peanut shells. My elbows perched up on the ledge, cracking the nut carcasses under the weight of my bone. I pursed my lips against the tip of a bottle, knowing it had been empty for hours.

The lights were dim, with a slight flicker, & the music was loud. Everything pulsated together: the lights, the sound, my heart, her footsteps. I saw someone walking towards the bar, eyes down low, footsteps sloppy. I looked around to find her face, but it was dark, hidden beneath her choppy hair with only her pointed chin & sloped nose peeking out. She leans over the bar, opposite my stance, holding up a gentle finger that made the bartender give a quick nod. She turned towards me, almost in slow motion but still in rhythm with the pulsating beat, as if she herself were a strobe. She held up one stagnant hand, leaving behind the wave, & I returned the favor. It felt awkward. 

Hi. 

Hi. 

Can you hear me?

No, not really. What’s your name?

What? I can’t really hear you. What’s your name?

Want to go outside? 

What?

I pointed my thumb behind my shoulder, over to a door illuminated by  a blood-red neon EXIT sign. She gave me a thumbs up & led the way, grabbing her drink on the way out. I pushed the bar to open the heavy, greasy door & was immediately hit with a wall of cold, sprinkled air that pierced my lungs. My boots creased the snowy residue on the ground, mixed with dirt & cigarette ashes. She sat on top of a covered garbage pail and kicked her feet out slowly, like a child. I could see her clearly now. 

She was pale, frail. Thick, wavy hair fell into bangs on her forehead--honeyed freckles peeking out underneath. Cheeks red, with an oxblood sheen. Her eyes were dark, haunting; daunting. Her shoulders were small as she scrunched up into a tight slouch, taking a cigarette pack out from her jacket pocket and exhaling condensed mist slowly from her pursed lips.

That was the last memory I had of her that I can strictly recall. Every night, I look at her, but I do not know her anymore.

· · ·

We continue walking in the moonless night to where only we know. The path is the same, worn away by our shoes over the years, rocks dug hard into the ground under our feet. The wind blows through my hair and my breath quickens. I am nervous, anxious. My crispy hands always start to shake as we get close & I feel the sticky, warm wet oxblood under my fingernails. We are close.

It’s okay. We must endure.

Okay. 

We chose this path.

I know. 

…

Do you remember when we first met? At the club? So many years ago?

I do. 

Do you think we could ever go back there? Start over?

No. We have chosen this path. The blood is on our hands.

Okay.

The grass is coarse here. It's stiff & hard, ripping the sides of my legs. Vines branch out of the concrete, cold earth, cracking the dirt between its roots. I’ve memorized the quirks, so I never trip. We walk hand in hand, making sure we steady one another, but we both know the way. The moss on the trees grows thick. If the moon was awake tonight, it would be strangled in these woods. 

The tip of my shoes hit soft ground & we stopped abruptly. 

Ready?

Yes.

She takes out her mini flashlight from her parka and flicks it on. It struggles to wake, she hits the side, curses, then a steady stream of light illuminates the mound.

· · ·

My stepfather was hard around the edges, with boulder-like curves & heavy footsteps. The shadow on his squared face prickled out like freshly cut grass. His hands were raw & callused, the image of an experienced man. Every morning, he left for the field, where he labored morning & night, coming home just in time for dinner. In town, he was known as “the Ox,” for he was solid, stern, & hard working. The Ox had a stone cold spirit. He was chilly to the touch, said very few words, & believed in child-care tactics that were deemed inappropriate many years ago. Of course, she knew him more than I.

We met before our parents did. Her father was the Ox & he raised her with few words & many cigarette burns. He never raised his voice, but he always raised his hand. To most, he was humble & family-oriented. His first marriage to her biological mother ended quietly, as she ran away quietly. She doesn’t know where she is, even to this day--she left her to fend for herself against the Ox. 

Then, I met her, at the club. New in town, she wasn’t well acquainted. She was frail & I felt drawn to her, like a drunken moth to a flickering light bulb. Something was enthralling about her struggling flicker--it burned bright in my eyes. I needed her to live. We needed to flicker together.

After months of being together, my mother met the Ox working in the lumber yard. My mother was simple, hardworking, but soft all around. Plump body, deep smile, crinkled eyes. She was a warm fireplace during a crisp winter’s evening. She had hard, calloused hands, but they felt warm against my cheeks when she cupped my face in the morning, pressing a soft kiss against my forehead. My mother was my sun, I orbited around her.

Not long after, my mother & the Ox were married. She & I became step-siblings, but we never saw it that way--we both had moved out before the marriage & never recognized the other step-parent. I knew the Ox was vile the moment I met him, but she...she never saw the warmth in my mother. 

Not long after, he sucked my mother’s blood away like a leech, leaving her cold, frail corpse to grasp at whatever life it had left. She was drained of her splendor--her hands were cold to the touch. 

· · ·

I decided to head “home” one night with a bottle of wine. I thought it might bring back some color to my mother’s face. The Ox answered the door, perspiring from the forehead, lips cracked and grey. His knuckles were bruised and his face was flush.

Has something happened?

What is it you want?

I’m here to  spend some time with my mother. Is she home?

She’s not feeling well.

He started to close the door, closing me off from her, and I slipped my fingers quickly into the sliver of light between the door & the moulding. 

Please, may I see her?

...

His brow grew harder, hammering down on his lids. He whipped around quickly, generating some wind around his thick body, & stammered off. Was he drunk? I ran into the house searching for my mother. She was in bed, the thin white sheet had more color than her. She parted a slight, stuttering smile & held up a stagnant hand, without the wave.

Are you alright? Are you ill?

No...no. Just tired.

The lights were off, but I came in closer. Her brow down to her jawline was bursting with jewel tones. Emerald green, burgundy red, sapphire blue. She was swollen & puffy--she smelled of blood; her own. Her eyes were glassy, lost of the honey brown that sometimes glittered in the sunlight right around noon.

What’s happened?

Oh, nothing. You know how I am. 

I didn’t know how she was--not anymore. What did she even mean? I touched the raw tissue on her face. She flinched, pressed my hand away, dragging my fingertips against the dried, crusty tears on her fleshy vellum. Her breath was slow, impatient, & tight. Something was off, the air tasted different, the smell was dry. I had neglected to see my mother for quite some time, for my partner could not stand to be beside her father once she had me to escape with. I abided by her & neglected that maternal warmth. Because of that, my hand was the one that pinched the wick, sending the flame into wispy smoke. It was my hand that smothered her soul. That night, she was gone & I never saw that old spark in my mother again. 

· · ·

I stole the knife & she bought us time. I hid the blade in my coat pocket & she outlined the plan. 

This is our destiny.

Okay.

I did not want to take it this far, but she took me into the depths of her own shadows & told me, over & over, what he did to her as a child. She told me that this was the only way out for my mother, the only way to bring back that glimmer in her eye. Blinded, I agreed. She wept. I shook. This is our destiny. Looking back, I think that she was just waiting for the day to find someone, as weak as me, to rope into her scheme that she had dreamed about since she was a little girl. She took one look that night at the club & she knew. I was the one. 

· · ·

That night, she peered through the dusty lace curtains behind the window, crouching beneath a tree. My mother was taking slow breaths under the covers as the dull hum of the television illuminated her sleeping face. Mouth slightly open, hand atop her chest, bony fingers with yellowed nails--she looked dead, but there was not enough peace on her face for it to be so. 

She ran to the other side of the house, flanking the garden, & saw the Ox, asleep on the couch with an empty beer bottle perched on his thick belly. She looked back at me, with dark, swirling eyes & held up a solitary finger. Ready.

Crouching down, we both snuck through the side door that she kept a spare key to, & made our way to the living room, where the Ox lay motionless. I could feel the weight of the knife still in my coat pocket, getting heavier by the second. My vision started to blur, making the low-light interior jut off into multiple, fuzzy angles. Cold sweat formed on my brow as my tongue grew dry, creating an incredible itch in my throat. I couldn’t go through with this--it wasn’t the way to get my mother back. I stopped sneaking & inhaled quickly through my tight lips. She looked back at me, eyes still swirling, one eyebrow raised. I shook my head, I can’t. She tightened her eyes, gripped my arm, rough. You must. Tears started to fall from my eyes, lightly pattering on the ground. My mother was just around the corner. It took every muscle in my being to stay crouched & out of her room. How I longed for her to hold me, like she once did when I was a child. 

I accepted it before I could change my mind. This was my destiny, as she always said. Though now, I’m not so sure. We reach the living room, set in a warm glow from the two simple floor lamps placed on either side of the room. The Ox was still planted on the chequered couch, sunken in the indent made from years of sleep & slump. I crept over, as she stayed peeking out from behind the wall. I thought, for a moment, was this what she had always imagined? Would she stay up as a child, clutching her quilt, dreaming of this moment, right here? Was I always in that fantasy?

I stood up tall in front of the Ox, one last tear falling to the ground. Then, my world filled with darkness.

· · ·

Suddenly, I blinked down at my hands with shaky vision--they were covered in the Ox’s blood. My knife, filthy with grim & gore, shook out of my hands & onto the floor with a sharp clink. I could hear my mother stirring in her bedroom, and I said, 

We must go. We must go. We can’t--

Wait.

She got up from her crouched position, grabbed the knife, & took out her years of frustration & anger on the Ox. She too, was now covered in oxblood, from little strands of her hair to her fraying jeans. 

We must go!

But she wouldn’t stop--she couldn’t stop. My heartbeat rose faster, my feet became sore & yearned to bolt. The room began to spin again as the walls caved in, for I feared my mother would wake up & see what I had done. What I had solely done. I looked at the Ox, lifeless & unrecognizable on the couch as sweat & spit spewed from her mouth, brow curled into something inhuman. I felt the bile rising up in my throat & I knew what a mistake I had made. I freed my mother, but I bound my soul to the depths of the grotesque & ungodly. She took me down to her misery & made myself at home--she forced me to belong.

· · ·

I have not seen my mother since we peered in through the window, watching her sleep. It has been years on the run, with two name changes and twelve “homes.” I am sure that she knows that it was me, but I left a suicide note to make her think that I was gone--forever. My heart is black because of what I did to the Ox, but leaving my mother to fend for herself--that’s what drained the last bit of life that I had in my soul.

· · ·

The flashlight shook awake & she illuminated the hard mound of dirt, covered in sprouting weeds & washed up dead worms. Every night, we force ourselves to walk to the place where we dragged him from the house--a 6 hour journey with such a large, dead man. We come for different reasons. She comes to feel that bit of warmth, that sickly sweet relief that he “got what he deserved.” She has no regrets, but she is also not the one that killed him, despite what she recalls. I come to remind myself, especially on the days where I feel slightly okay, slightly mediocre, slightly human, of what I have done. Seeing this mound kicks me back down into the depths of disgusting, vile, hatred for no one but myself. I don’t even hate her, because she is not the one that did it--I was. There was nothing gained for me in this situation, other than that I was blinded by secondhand rage & yearned to be the liberator of my mother’s own nightmare. I think I may have just sent her into a deeper terror. 

She stares at the mound for a long while. Then, she violently spits on the dirt. It slides off the mound, taking a few small rock particles with it, & settles in the grass adjacent. I do nothing but stare at the dirt with blurring eyes. This is my current life--void of friendships, love, laughter, a family. Who was I to decide the fate of someone else? I did not know that person anymore. 

Wherever I go, at every turn, I see the oxblood.

· · ·

I stare up at the melting sky, dripping into the rising sun in shades of marigold & tangerine. I bite the edge of my razored lips, charred from the frosty wind & constant chewing. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the tips of my lashes kiss my cheeks. I exhale, slowly, releasing a little bit of pain that I carry around like a backpack throughout the day. Sometimes, I fantasize about telling her that this is the last time, the last walk. That in the morning, I will be gone, whether by suicide or by fleeing. I fantasize that she will cry, ask me to stay, pledge to start anew--but I know none of those would happen, for she has & always will see me as a manipulative doll. Someone that she drew in, like a cigarette drag, and puffed out when all was done. 

I think tomorrow, I may finally tell her. I think tomorrow, I will phone my mother. & I think tomorrow, I will disappear. 

Or perhaps, it’s all just a fantasy, for the oxblood has stained my hands deep, seeped into the cracks of my soles, & leaves a mark everywhere I step.

Like footprints in the snow, it will always follow 

& find me.

Author's Note

please let me know what you think of this short story, I am open to all critiques and questions!