Stop

Make it stop.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop! I can't stand it. My mind's slipping from my grasp again. I can feel myself falling to the ground, helpless to resist, but still it won't stop!

I'm in a bathroom. I guess I am about 4. The floor is wet, though I can't remember why. I can't stand up steadily and the doorknob is out of reach. I want to get out, but the my arm won't stretch that far, though I'm straining. The tap is dripping. Drip, drip, dripping, an endless, maddening aria played only for me. I am screaming. Screaming for my father to let me out. Oh please, I didn't know, I'm sorry, I'll never touch your knife again, just let me out.

It's blood. The water I'm slipping on isn't water at all, but blood, and there's a terrible gash in my arm, where I had drawn the knife violently across. Why? I can't remember why I cut my arm, but I remember that father is punishing me. Punishing me and I'm slipping in my own blood, trying to get out, but all I can see is red and all I can hear is water. I slip again, face to the floor, and inhale some of the dark red liquid. I choke through my tears, managing to sit, and examine my arm. It's a masterwork inside, long, stringy shapes I can barely make out underneath the liquid flow. My skin is loose on either side, almost hanging, and I use my other hand to try and pull some of it away. That sends a surge through my body, wracking it with pain, and I can see dark spots before my eyes. I desist, fresh tears streaming down my dirty, juvenile face.

The tap is dripping. Someone should fix it.

I give up. I know he's not coming, that he'll leave me here forever. I'm going to die with only the constant drip as my company. But it will never expire. I'll become lifeless and decayed and it will keep on dripping, to the end of time. Immortally.

I am going deaf, but now I can hear everything. I can hear the taps three houses down. They're all so loud, like they're ripping through my eardrums, tearing through my soul. I am light-headed, and wonder if this is death. But, no, not yet. Father wouldn't let me die, the punishment has only begun.

I don't want to be punished. He hurts me, and he hurts me bad. I feel as if my body will just break, right there in his arms. I feel as though my mouth will split, my rectum will just rip right open, and nothing will be left but pieces, pieces of a boy no one really cared about anyways.

He comes into the bathroom after an eternity of loneliness and dripping, and he strips me down so I'm naked, except for the blood smeared on my body. He takes off his own clothing while telling me severely never to hurt myself like that. I must never touch his switchblade, because I'll hurt myself or others. I should never touch a blade. I'm a danger to everyone.

He moves closer to me, he stretches my jaw around a familiar erection, and pushes my head up and down. With each thrust, I gag, but it continues while the tap drips incessantly in the background. He pulls me up, the pain from the hairs that are tugged not even comparable to what comes next. He pushes my legs up far, almost touching my chest. They feel like they'll snap, but somehow my legs hold. He whispers something incoherent and he shoves violently into me, the only lubrication being my own saliva. It tears into my tight skin, burning, bleeding, and I thrust my neck back, almost hoping it will snap and I'll be rendered lifeless. With no pause, no time to recover, he pulls out and forces himself back in. He repeats it until I'm positive I'm bleeding as much from that small entrance as from my arm. I'm clasping to my father, and crying for mercy, but it falls on deaf ears. When he finally stops, he cradles me into his arms, onto his lap, and pats down my hair gently. Even through my sobs, I hear the tap, determined as it is.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop...suddenly, the dripping is gone! I am 17 again and sitting in a school bathroom. People are staring at me. One kid, the one who fixed the tap I suppose, is looking at me as if I were some inconsequential dirt on his shoe, to be scraped off at the next curb or stair. I stand up. They all jerk, as if afraid that I'll attack one of them. And for a second, I want to. For a second, I can see that blade in my head, my father's knife, the one he never lets me touch since that time, and all their bodies are dead on the floor. My hand travels to my pocket, where I keep my own, and one of them steps back jerkily.

I walk out of the bathroom, regretting my lack of action, but feeling satisfied enough. They'll get theirs. One day.

Maybe the next time the constant dripping starts.