2 Stories

Bleeding Hands

As I washed my dry, cracked hands in rapidly heating water, I suffered stabbing pains and my skin expanded, gathering in folds around my knuckles. I refused to moisturise, so my hands became parched—but no matter, I felt a sadistic pleasure in the suffering. I let my skin bleed, wiping blood over towels, across my jeans, against doors, and then, because the stains enraged you, (and I’m afraid of you) I would plunge my palms deep into my pockets.

Late at night, I prised open a beer with my fingernail and watched the game. The alcohol played insidiously with my mind and propelled me to make a decision. I packed my bags, noticing how the fabric of the crumpled cotton shirts gently caressed my fingertips. There was nowhere to go (and yet fury still urged me forward). I slammed the front door behind me, wanting the noise to shudder through the flat, into your bones. I faced the opposition of the night with its restless breeze and tall sticky weeds flourishing after a storm. Mugshots of missing pets peered at me from lamp posts, questioning me until I was full of doubt.

There was a time when I gently cupped your cheek and you would purr. There was a time when I massaged the knots in your back and you sighed with shameless ecstasy. But moments like that were short lived. Usually, if I were to draw a finger along your arm, you’d grab me by my wrist, complaining my hands were rough like bark.

Before the incessant need to wash, wash, wash—having to thrust and knead my hands in water, causing crisp skin to ooze spots of blood that swirled down the drain with coils of hair —I felt I could truly please you.

We would walk together through expensive neighbourhoods where trees shut out the sun, and we immersed ourselves in aggressive dreams about better lives together.

In the kitchen, I was a master at manipulating shapes and smells, dicing vegetables, battering fish, panfrying chicken thighs—feeding you banquets with my hands. But as we festered indoors, my recipes got old, I became tired of trying to impress and I was reluctant to risk my fingers under the razor-sharp kitchen knife. It didn’t take long before you’d stare at my creations, pick through the burnt remnants and then sweep the food into the bin, uneaten. As my skin split every time I balled my hands into fists, all I could think of was taking my frustration out on you. Then I recalled the one time I physically harmed you—slapped you across the cheek—and how you never looked at me in the same way again.

I got in my car, placed my hands on the wheel and drove. Shadows loomed large as I parked in a bleak, empty one-way street, so I flicked my lights on full beam to keep me company. Foxes darted through front yards—eyes glowing like marbles in the sun, unaware they were being examined. I tried to sleep in my car that night but I just tossed and turned and waited for you to text me. I had made a mistake. I prodded on my phone with my thumbs and sent the message, “I’ve used your moisturiser, I can change.” It was time to go home.

But how do you go back after you’ve raised your hand in violence, even if it was only once? How can I seek forgiveness if I’m not sure I won’t repeat my mistake again? Some stains won’t wash.

When I get home, I will run my hand through your hair (praying it won’t get tangled and flecked with blood) and ask you what it is you really want, and you’ll say, “You need to paint that wall” or “Maybe if you looked me in the eyes for once, you’d know,” and even if I don’t love you anymore, I still need to feel your softness against my skin.  

Shooting and Killing

Orchestral strings reverberated through Gustave’s telephone and into his furious mind. The music was stirring and reminded him of cinematic breakups. He could imagine this music playing as his ex-wife wielded a knife at him before packing her designer bags and disappearing into the night. This was a year ago and Gustave still hadn’t met anyone new and now he was making another one of his phone calls.

The music ceased, there was a tantalising silence then a woman with a clipped professional tone came on the line, “British Army, public relations, I’m Julie how can I help?”

Gustave took a deep breath and then unleashed a salvo of ferocious remarks. He then dabbed a handkerchief across his perspiring forehead and attempted to make his point in a more eloquent fashion.

“Do you think, Julie, it is appropriate, Julie, to promote murder on your radio adverts, Julie?”

“I don’t know the exact ads you are referring to, sir, but I can assure you that we would never promote killing.”

“Well, let me quote your advert word for word. Here we go, ‘Your weekends are fine but they can never match firing armour piercing rounds from a machine gun out of a wildcat helicopter.’ Now what do you have to say? Is this really acceptable?”

“Sir, I have to say, there is no mention of death, there is just shooting.”

“Well, who the hell are you shooting at?! What do you think will happen when those bullets leave the gun? Don’t play dumb with me, Julie. Are you dumb?”

“War is a reality sir, and off the record, I don’t think there’s any sense in denying it.”

After a silence he said, “You might be right, Julie, and it’s nothing personal. To be honest, there are loads of adverts doing my head in these days—constantly charging through my mind.”

“Sir, if that’s all…?”

“Tell me, Julie,” he said, jamming a finger in his ear and wiggling it about, “what advert really gets you?”

“I like the one with the little rabbits who eat all the pizza.”

“No, no,” seethed Gustave. “See, this is exactly the type of trash I’m talking about—meaningless, trivial, invasive. Pick another ad.”

“What … ?”

“I want you to choose the correct advert.”

“Sir, you’re getting unnecessarily upset and I think it’s best we end this call.”

“No wait, please, pick another advert and then I’ll tell you about one that changed my life, can you do that? Can we make a deal?”

“Ok sir, but I really must free the line.”

“Of course, your time is precious, my time is precious, I know, I know. Go ahead.”

“Well, if you want me to mention an ad that really annoyed me, I guess it’s the burger ones that sponsor the football. I mean, when I think about it, they make me really mad—all those impressionable kids who idolise sports stars and yet they’re made to believe junk food can make you fit and healthy.”

“I agree entirely, Julie, it’s outrageous. And yet these campaigns are all-pervasive. I don’t think there’s any hope for our society. Let me tell you about one that truly affected me.”

“Ok, but just so you know, this phone call is being recorded.”

“I understand,” Gustave said, holding in his diaphragm tight like a snare drum. “I want the authorities to hear, anyway. I haven’t told this to anyone outside of my family, Julie. Maybe I feel there is something special about you or it’s just one of those nights but here goes: I was in an advert once. An ad for purified spring water. I was just a child, roughly seven or eight and my whole family acted in the TV spots that were shown day and night. Clean, clear water—everything pure. Well of course, the product was a con. The company was peddling tap water. The ad campaign was quickly ditched and our family became a laughing stock. I was bullied mercilessly at school. My parents, who were actors, were almost blacklisted. That ad ruined my life and well, that’s it, I guess.”

“That’s terrible, sir. No one deserves that kind of treatment. I hope you know we at the British Army would never act in such a callous manner. I really feel we’re like a family here and I hope our discussion has quelled any concerns you might have.”

Gustave relaxed his stomach and gave an aching sigh, “You’re all the same aren’t you, Julie? You know someone famous once said, ‘If you’re in advertising—kill yourself.’ That’s how I feel about you and your criminal empire, Julie. Because you manipulate and exploit—you and those like you are utterly reprehensible …”

Julie hung up but Gustave kept his ear to the phone as it blared its dull, monotonous ringtone.

He thought about those closest to him and how they weren’t close to him anymore—his friends who’d emigrated to all corners of the world, his little girl living with his ex-wife whom he could only see occasionally and how as the months passed, he’d felt like an imposter in her life. And then there were his late parents who always tried to protect him from the harsh realities of the world but couldn’t hide the damage they’d suffered from the moment their careers had been ruined. And now they were gone, too.

“Anyway, Julie, I’m Gustave. And I’m sorry,” he said, laying the phone receiver on the side table (the dial tone still ringing) and talking to the room as if he was connected to something greater, “I certainly didn’t mean to imply you approve of mass murder. You’re not an animal, I know that really. I guess I get lonely Julie and the world’s a dangerous place.”