Scented memories 4- Eviscerate

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This is a nightmare turned dream of freedom. It smells of heat.


photocredit: Caroline Jamhour

I stare at my hands. They are small and white and underneath the pale skin I can see the shape of the blue and purple veins. My hands have long red nails which cut into my flesh when I touch it. Around the nails, my skin is constantly shredding, sick of life, just as I am.When I tear it away, red pearls of blood bloom. I stretch them on my white hands. With my right hand, reshaped by writing callouses, I grab the knife. The cold steel of the handle relaxes my tired and feverish skin. I think how the cool blade could put out the fires I constantly carry with me. Yet, they are too many, too hot for a single steel knife. My fires would be more alive. Slowly, I point the tip of the knife to my belly. I delay slicing in, but not for too long. First I feel the cold, then the pain and in the end, the blade. I cut into my own body. The pain is atrocious,  it chokes me and fills up my being. Blood bathes my entire body in a red paste. Underneath the knife, my hand starts to feel the heat emanating out of me, out of my veins, out of my loins. It feels as if I've put my hand over fire and let it burn. My fire is inside me and it burns tenfold. I drop the knife. My white hand is stained with blood,  but now I feel no pain. I look at myself in the mirror. Inside me, the fires of hell are burning. I have no organs, I have no stomach, I have no entrails, I have only hot coal, iridescent, lighting sporadically, fueled up by its own heat. Tongues of fire slowly crawl out of me. I let them leave and I can see them engulfing the entire room. Inside me, the fire dies out and for the first time, I feel free, I feel human. Everything but me in engulfed in white hot flames.

I open my eyes suddenly. I'm scared. It's light and warm and I don't know where I am. My bed sheet is hot and I feel like I'm suffocating, as in other mornings. It smells of heat. I think I've had a dream.  I would like to sleep longer, but the clock tells me it's almost 7 and I know that I if I don't get up now, I will be late again. In a haze, I prepare a cup of tea. But something is odd. My heart is racing and I want to cry, not for sadness, but for joy. I can't understand what's going on. The beating of my blood becomes more and more intense and I can hear my arteries drumming inside my ears. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck and choke on my own breath. In my mind, dream images start to unfold: my hands, a steel knife, blood and the strange feeling of freedom. And suddenly, I feel the old eternal and consuming burn, somewhere deep inside my being, far from any hormone, stronger than any painkiller, in my intimate void where there is no actual organ, just my being, with all its strength. It's like a fire in my entrails but it's beyond body and heart. It's soul in its purest form. It burns, hotter than will or sex or mind. I suddenly remember my dream. I've eviscerated myself. Now I understand what I have to do. 

I stare at my hands. They are small and white and underneath the pale skin I can see the shape of the blue and purple veins.  My hands have long red nails which cut into my flesh when I touch it. Around the nails my skin is constantly shredding, sick of life, just as I am. When I tear it away, red pearls of blood bloom. I stretch them on my white hands. With my right hand, reshaped by writing calluses, I start writing. It hurts and I can't find my words and I fear of losing everything,  but it sets me free. I'm cutting myself open.

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