White.
Where the fuck am I? I reach out, press a hand to the wall I’m facing and startle at sepia smears of dried blood on the back of my right hand.
I wince as I crane my head to the right, upwards, recognize the peeling frame of the Puyet litho that hangs above the bed.
It floods back too fast and the adrenaline is an avalanche into my veins, my heart thuds in my chest. Panic is circling like hyenas. I can hear it’s laughing cackle. I can feel the muscles in my legs and arms tighten as I fight the urge to bolt from the bed.
My hands shake so bad they seem to flutter and they are pale as parchment as I draw my purple-spotted knees and thighs to my chin.
My Mac is a secondhand refurb, crisscrossed with scars, I wrench it open, wait for the familiar green light next to Matthew. Dread is a tide pool of dark water that grows deeper around my legs as I type.
I mainly focus on the lilt of his accent when he speaks. His words have taken on an unfamiliar slowness. He is careful. His normal coloring, peony, quick to blush, has blanched so white the color seems to have drained from his eyes.
My parents are next. Their reaction, pure vitriol and blame. I cry until my throat aches, until I dry heave. The disgust in my mother’s voice is palpable. In my gut, under thousands of peeling, burned layers of shame and fear a hard, little seed of hatred splits wide open and sprouts.
I find my budgie, Irish, crumpled on the floor of his cage. He is still warm. I sit and stare through the panes of the French door in a tee shirt, still bloody, holding a dead bird against my chest.
I am a skeleton draped in skin and sinew. My mind is a field of fresh snow. In the distance someone is screaming.
The Dappy Bint 