My stomach hurts.
Why do I let her hurt me this much? It’s been the story of our relationship. I remember when I first fell in love with her and every time I thought about her a terrible, but wonderful, pain ripped across my chest and down to my stomach. My mind would go blank every time I saw her and I babbled endlessly whenever I got the chance to talk to her. She probably thought I was a clammy freak when we started hanging out because I broke out in a cold sweat when she stood near me. I dreaded holding hands in case that was one of her turn-offs and our relationship ended before it began because of my damned glands. I still hurt with love each day I wake up and see her beautiful face next to me. But this pain is wrong. This is bad.
The knife handle sticks out of my stomach. Four and a half inches of cold, black steel is dug into my soft midsection. Blood, my blood, seeps out of the wound and my shirt sponges up as much as it can, but it’s not perfect. The blood has spread through my shirt, down onto my pants and probably onto the couch. My mom is going to kill me. She told me not to even spill beer on the couch when she gave it to me, and now this. I hope Kirsten’s happy. I haven’t pulled out the knife because I’m afraid. I remember once somebody telling me leaving it in is better because it slows the flow of blood. Also, the back of the survival knife is serrated. Breathing hurts. I should do something.
I think I should be bleeding more. I’m bleeding a lot though, a lot more than they show in the movies, but I guess I expected a geyser. The body is not something to fuck around with. I’ve learned that much from biology courses. Every organ works in harmony with the rest of the system. If one fails then the other ones are going to screw up as well. I think I got lucky, a million dollar wound. But not a perfect one. Maybe a nine-hundred thousand dollar wound. The blade of the knife is vertical, not horizontal and that might be my one lucky break. It may have gone in at such an angle that it might not have cut my stomach very deep, if at all. I got lucky that it didn’t clip any arteries. If it had I would’ve been dead before Kirsten called me a fucker and slammed the door. It’s funny the shit you remember sometimes.
No help is coming for me. Kirsten’s the one who stabbed me and I doubt she’ll come back and give me first aid. I’ll just sit here and wait for an idea of some half-remembered medical advice from a television show to come to me. I know what happened to me, but I have no fucking clue how to fix it. My only other option is that I’ll bleed out slowly and die peaceably on the couch. Even though Kirsten can do such a terrible thing like this to me, I still love her. And you can’t just rat on the people you love. You have to work this shit out. I don’t want her to go to jail. If I go to the hospital they’ll ask how this happened and I can’t think of a convincing lie. That’s the key to this whole situation. I could claim I fell on it, but that doesn’t sound plausible. I could claim I was committing suicide like an honorable samurai, but that would get me a stay in a mental ward and they’d probably still question Kirsten. The truth would come out anyway. This was an act of passionate anger, not something she could do every day to survive. She’s much too soft for prison. I can’t imagine her going to prison and having to shiv a bull-dyke just to keep her lunch.