Story time

I thought I'd share a short story I wrote a while ago which is part fiction and part auto-biographical. I'll let you try and figure out which parts are what. 

Thanks for reading. 

Love,

P

"The Phone Call" 

   I'm sitting at the table with tears streaming down my face. The teardrops roll down my face and neck ruining my favorite shirt. 

   My vision is blurry as my eyes are overcome with drops of emotion and with my right hand I knead my eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. 

   I know my mascara has run. So much for waterproof make-up. I guess the manufacturer didn't consider hysterical women in their pitch meeting. 

   The phone is lying next to me but I can't muster the courage to pick it up. Next to the phone is a slip of paper with a number I know I can trust. I just can't trust myself yet. 

    I'm still bleeding. It doesn't hurt anymore though. There's just a dull throb. I numbed it with ice prior to the blood so the pain would subside rapidly. I don't know if it's working this time. 

    My heartbeat throbs in the same steady beat as the dullness in my extremity. It's starting to turn purple. Bruising. 

    My eyes have emptied now. The tears have stopped. My eyes are suddenly Sahara dry. I look over at the phone again, pick it up and dial the number. 

    At the "Hello" at the other end, my throat closes up and I manage to mumble an apology before I hang up. I'm not ready. I thought I was ready. I just need a minute. Like all the other minutes I've needed all the other times before. 

     I head into the bathroom, turn the faucet on and splash my face with water. I wash the blood off. The sting of the water hurts more than the act itself. My eyes almost tear up again but I grit my teeth.

      I bandage myself up and head back into the kitchen. My cat wags his tail at me. I give him some kibble and sit down at the table. I pick up the phone and hear the dial.