Exsanguination
By Thomas Kearnes

—for Chris

Jake never graduated high school. He spent the last two years in prison. I don’t expect him to know the word. I repeat it to myself as he explains how he drew the knife down his wrists vertically, not horizontally. We have an agreement: always tell one another the truth.

Exsanguination, I tell myself.

“That’s why you didn’t bleed to death,” I say. “You cut the wrong way.” The tweak has hit us both strong and ugly, so the words tumble out of my mouth like blind ballerinas.

“What did you say?”

This time, he hears me. I add, “Did you really want to die?”

Jake looks at me, helpless, his pupils wide as manholes. He shrugs, glances down at my child-sized stuffed gorilla seated next to the empty bookcase. “I can’t remember.”

“I can’t tell where you did it.”

“Like I showed you. Right here.” He runs a slim, small finger down his wrist away from his palm.

“No, I mean there’s no scar.”

“I guess I didn’t cut deep enough.”

I tell him about the three times I tried to overdose on pills. Well, I didn’t just try—I succeeded. The last time, after Bronc left me, I spent a few days in the facility at the west end of town. So, you see, I tell him, I really did overdose. I just didn’t overdose enough.

“Did you really want to die?” he asks. He’s so damn young, not a line crossing his heart-shaped face, I want to cry.

“I wanted to sleep for a really long time, and I didn’t think about when I’d wake up. Isn’t that sort of the same thing?”

Jake gazes at me, uncomprehending. His focus wanders. After rolling and grasping and moaning on the bed a few hours, we were exhausted, damp and sore. Finally, he points toward the one window in my bedroom.

“I think it’s morning.” Pale gray light slips through the blinds.

“I’m still wired as fuck.”

“Is the air conditioner on?”

“Full blast. You want something to take the edge off?”

He asks what I have. I tell him to follow me into the bathroom. Normally, I’d be embarrassed. The towels smell foul. Water spots dapple the lower half of the mirror overlooking the counter. Tiny black whiskers from my last shave coat the inside of the sink.

I pick up a prescription bottle and twist off the cap. Inside, there are at least forty pale blue pills. They’re very small and indented in the middle, like the illustrations of red blood cells in a biology textbook. I pour a few into my hand, set down the bottle then pick one.

“Here,” I say. “Open your mouth.”

My thumb and forefinger between his lips, I place the pill on his tongue. I run a glass of water and hand it to him. He swallows the pill.

“What is it going to do?”

“Maybe help you come down. Who knows?”

I take one myself. “Do you want another?” I ask. Jake nods, his face solemn. A single bird chirps madly outside the window. I place another pill inside his mouth. This time, he closes his lips around my thumb and finger and sucks them a moment. I smile and let him.

As I’m about to take a third pill, he grabs my arm. “No,” he says. “Let me.” He takes a pill from my open hand and inserts it into my mouth. I suck on his thumb and finger and gaze in awe at his simple, doomed beauty. Once he removes them, I swallow the pill.

We take turns feeding one another pills. Our motions quickly fall into a sensuous, dream-like rhythm of sucking and swallowing.

After a while, he asks, “Should we take them all?”

“There’s a word for what you did.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Slashing your wrists. There’s a word for it.”

“What is it?”

“Exsanguination.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Sanguine is the Latin word for blood.”

It’s my turn. He takes a pill from my hand and feeds it to me. I caress his thumb and finger with my dry, hurting lips.

“What’s this called?” he asks.

I swallow. “You mean what we’re doing now?”

“Yeah, is there a name for it?”

I think for a moment. It’s not coming to me. I turn to see our reflections in the mirror. The two of us, both naked, stand facing one other. Jake expects an answer. I’m running out of time.

“Yes,” I finally say.

“What is it?”

I shake my head, try to smile. “Not till we’re done.” I take another pill from my hand, slip it between his waiting lips. While he sucks, I want to tell him I love him.

But we have an agreement.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com