I was lying, slumped on the floor propped against the wall, my hands desperately trying to apply pressure to the wounds in my stomach, the stab wounds.
My blood was seeping through my fingers, and my turquoise clothes looked like a weird tie dye project gone wrong, because it was done with blood.
I was weak, my eyes were begging, longing for reprieve from the pain of the wounds, but I knew if I held on, I would heal from this. Just like I’d healed from other wounds. But I needed time. I needed help. If I moved, I would lose more blood, that extra loss might push me over the edge into death.
You wanted me to dance with you, but I could not, I was slumped on the floor, desperately clinging to my life energy, focusing on healing from the horrendous wound which had been freshly reopened. You talked about being my wingman, but you could not see, I was lying on the floor in a pool of my own blood, dying.
I empathised with your desire, your need for me to dance with you, so I tried, I wanted you to experience love, you deserve love. I managed, with great difficulty, to get to my feet…
And when I did, when I was stood upright, in your arms, you took your knife and stabbed me, straight into my heart… I could not breathe… I could not speak…
I was in shock… how could someone who said they loved me, said they wanted to be my wingman, how could they do this to me?
Now I had the old wounds and a shiny fresh one, delectably vicious in its placing and timing. And yet you still wanted to dance with me, then and there.
When I eventually found the words to describe how the wound you inflicted on me felt, you were shocked. Surprised to hear that your knife had inflicted such wounds. Distraught even, oh no, how could I have hurt Charlie?? You felt remorse.
But still, you are clueless to how wielding that knife and stabbing it into my heart had damaged me so much. Because you don’t even know you’re carrying a knife, let alone taking the trouble to learn how to use it safely, so you don’t indiscriminately cut the people around you, the people you say you care about.
And so now I lie here, trying to recover from the old wounds, and the fresh one you’ve given me, and I strive to find words to help you understand that I cannot allow myself to keep getting wounded by you. Because I want to live.
I want to live without being stabbed when I’m at my lowest ebb. I want to live with people around me who bring happiness into my life, not take it away.
I need to be around people who can see the wounds I have, and offer support and kindness and compassion, not another wound for me to deal with, on my own.
