She Cried Tears of Crimson

Blood dribbles out from my mouth. My own? It is difficult to tell, would my own blood taste different than that of others? The sounds of the forest catch up to me: an owl hooting. A small animal fidgeting in the thicket. The wind catching into the treetops. I’m on the ground, I realize. Mud is swallowing my fingers and I pull them out, trying to push my body up. I look down at my arms: the needle marks, throbbing, sharpen into dark red and purple lines along my veins; I struggle to stop myself from vomiting. This is what you wanted, no?
I don’t know why I’m starting this story from this moment. I suppose this is the part where one would write: You might be asking yourself, how did I end up in this situation?
But truth be told, even I can’t tell the answer to that question.

Bathrooms are odd places. They possess a sort of calmness, a feeling of escapism: they are a liminal space beyond the reality of life. Bathrooms offer a pause, a moment of ultimate stillness and serenity when nothing matters, when everything freezes for a second. Within the insulating tiles, the water dripping from the tap, the cabinets filled with creams, medicine, ordinary things - within all this there is safety.
I remember my mother’s funeral. Of course I do, who wouldn’t. But I feel like I must state this because all I’m about to admit here may show a sort of indifference to you. So, I do remember it. Not in a particularly detailed way: I recall it as I would recall going to the mall, in an almost arbitrary fashion.
It was a sunny day when we buried her. I remember thinking how small the coffin seemed. She was a tall woman, and looking at the coffin it occurred to me that there is no way she could fit into that. Has she shrunk over the past years, under the weight of her illness? It seemed possible. I haven’t visited her much in the hospital.
As the priest talked, I held my little brother’s hand. It was dry and cold, even though I was sweating under the thick velvet dress my grandmother put on me. He was squeezing my hand tight and I was staring at the people sitting across me (we were sitting in a circle around the coffin, and it made me think of some sort of sacrifice, to a God, for rain and for the crops to grow tall), who stared at my dry eyes, the makeup on my skin, my manicured hands. I could hear them already, talking about me in the next few days: we lived in a small village and people had not much to do apart from discussing what others had done wrong and why they could do it better.
After the priest had finished the speech we stood up in silence. I looked at my father, my grandparents, my little brother. They were crying. They were looking down, as if avoiding the sight of the coffin. I stared at it and wondered what my mother looked like inside. Was she pale? Was she wearing her earrings, the ones with the poppy flowers she always wore? Did she still look like herself, even under the sunken eyes and the white skin? Then, I thought, I would want an open coffin. I would want my funeral to be tragic, for people to think: “Such beauty. We lost her so soon.”, because, of course, like every teenager I could only think of my death as one being held within the confines of youth and beauty.
The wake was held in the house of my mother’s best friend, because ours was under renovation at that time. My dad wanted to get new floors, lighter ones to make the rooms appear more spacious and vibrant. He was an architect and an interior designer, and you could always tell his mental state by what changes he wanted to make to our home. When my mother became ill, he built a gazebo with light brown trellis covered by roses; he would sit under it for hours until it became dark. He watched as the moon approached the round hole on its roof, filling it up slowly as it grew over the days of the month. I never sat under the gazebo, and I never saw the full moon shining within its opening, like a jewel cradled by the brown frame.
My mother’s best friend was called Annie-Belle, and I found this profoundly annoying: like, just choose one, Annie or Belle. I’m not sure why, but the obnoxious purposefulness of this name completely described her personality, the American dream of a midwestern girl, red and white checkered dresses and mugs shaped like cows that unfortunately always contained the best tea. I know some of the kids called her Annabelle, since she wore her hair in two braids, like the haunted doll from the movies, and they said she slept with different men every Friday night, taking them into the shed behind her home like a schoolgirl. I didn’t care about Annabelle’s sex life nor her braids, but they gave me a reason to dislike her. Because otherwise, I had no reason: she was just the type of person teenagers would loath because of her overly positive nature and simplicity.
Annie-Belle’s house was decorated with light pink flowers everywhere when we stepped in. They emanated a sickeningly sweet smell which made me dizzy as we walked into the living room prepared with tea and cookies on a table. The orange light of the setting sun lingered in through the windows.
‘I’m so sorry, Cel’ she whispered, hugging me. Her hair smelled like warm bread. ‘She’s an angel now’
I nodded. She was a nice woman: but I couldn’t forgive her for making my mother believe everything is going to be alright. I stood for a few seconds, my muscles tense under her arms. When she loosened them, I let go of her and forced out a smile.
‘Excuse me’ I said and headed to the narrow staircase at the other end of the room, covered by a thin curtain, leading to the living quarters of Annie. The silent chatter of the people died off as I walked upstairs. Annie-Belle’s cat, Royal, slept on a deep purple couch next to a book. I petted his head, and he looked up at me, annoyed.
Annie-Belle’s bathroom is all you could possibly want from a hiding place. It has a tap which is slightly loose, so there is the constant noise of dripping water to keep you from losing track of time. It has a window which can be opened and looks at our old sycamore tree across the street. It has creams, topical treatments, essential oils: knick-knacks to rummage through while waiting, waiting for nothing. I sat in the window and smoked five cigarettes that day while the others cried downstairs.


My mother died of leukemia. It’s an odd illness: cancer in the blood is hard to visualize. All other cancers can be imagined, as a mass throbbing on top of tender tissue. But blood is ever flowing. I used to think of leukemia as a force traversing around in my mother’s bloodstream, like a ghost, gnawing on her insides. I always knew, even though I didn’t understand how leukemia worked, that she didn’t have good chances. Blood is an innate part of humans, you can’t take it out, or cut pieces of it off and put it in a jar. You can never get rid of it fully, so if something goes wrong, it becomes part of you forever.