Page 37 of Vine

Inevitable, really. Thought gremlins had been pushing me to do it from the moment I fastened my seatbelt on the plane; the sour stink of decaying flowers merely sealed the deal. Only a moderately-sized welt, but in a smooth fresh spot on the medial border of my fleshy right upper arm. It stung like buggery inthe shower afterwards, but the initial head rush followed by the steady relaxing calm was well worth it. With nothing tempting in the freezer and no inclination to leave the flat, I dressed my wound, then took myself to bed, whereupon I tossed and turned, cursing my one-ply eyelids. I felt jittery. The dull pain in my arm reminded me I’d already cut once today, but the calming effect had worn off.

Perhaps I’d do it again if I couldn’t sleep. And again after that. I could run a hot bath, cut somewhere it might really hurt, where it might bleed profusely. Like the top of my thigh, above the artery.

Perhaps, might, and what if.

When my anxiety spiralled, I’d played this game for years on and off, queuing up all the what-ifs in my head. What if I really went for it? What if I went too deep? What if I couldn’t stop the bleeding? What if no one found me?

What if no one cared?

As a diversion, because I was frightening myself and despite having decided that Max was not going to become an additional complication in my life, I texted him.

What’s up?

His reply was immediate.Hello, Caspian. Nothing. Your bossy lady friend said you were away for two days. :)

Even on the verge of…something,I managed a smile at his emoticon. I pictured his thin-lipped look of concentration as his big thumbs typed out my name and I tried not to cry. Maybe I would cut again tonight.

Shame.:)

Why were neurodivergent characteristics viewed as negatives? I applied a few to Max: intense, persistent, rigid. The flipside: observant, a problem-solver, predictable. Solid, in other words. Non-changing and dependable. Someone who liked the same blue mug, the same blue clothes, the same bloody limitedpalette of emoticons. Someone totally unable to spin bullshit. Someone at total ease with his big body and simple life because considering anything different was so far out of his comfort zone he couldn’t comprehend it. Someone utterly different to me and a much healthier, happier, better person because of it.

Yes.I’m in my bed in England. :)

Alone and miserable.

I paused a beat before typing again.My dick is wishing you were in it with me.Which wasn’t strictly true. My dick was as limp as cooked spaghetti, but no one hopefully going to rail you someday needed to know that.

Dicks aren’t sentient.

I snorted. How did one reply to that? I was still trying to come up with something suitable when he sent,I’m in bed too, reading an article on my phone about Siberian salmon fishing, so I literally can’t think about your penis right now.

Out of nowhere, my eyes brimmed with stupid tears, and I wished I was right there with him. Propped against his blue pillows, drinking his sweet hot chocolate out of one of his blue mugs, watching his eyes as he solemnly scrolled down his phone screen. I brushed my tears away, only for new ones to take their place.

Oh, okay. What have you learned?

That salmon living in the frigid rivers of Siberia are top predators, which means they don’t have any natural predators, except hungry Russians, of course. :) Some historical accounts record Siberian salmon weighing more than 90 kilograms.

A sob broke out. I would cut myself again. As soon as Max signed off.That sounds heavy, for a salmon?

Very. For comparison, the Alaskan king salmon typically tops out at about 25 kilograms.

Good to know.

Perhaps this cut could be a little deeper. I’d see how far I could go up my left wrist. I was more adept with my right hand. Would anyone care if I did?

Salmon pink is a misnomer, by the way.Salmon orange would be more accurate.:)

I mean, I’d have to summon the energy first. Swing my legs out of bed. Switch the lights on; the room was black as pitch. Or maybe just do it using the light from my phone screen, grab my razor and bring it back to bed. If Max kept texting me with his salmon shit, that brightness might be enough. It might be enough to?—

Or salmon coral. I wish you were here to discuss it properly.

It might be enough for me to admit the truth.

I need to tell you that I’m not feeling very well right now, Max. :(

Ten seconds later, the phoned buzzed. “Caspienne.” He drew out my name sadly, tenderly, like saying it fucking mattered to him.

Naturally, I burst into tears.

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