A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [127]
I open the door. I step toward the sink, carefully avoiding the mirror. When I reach the sink, I turn on the cold water. I wait until it gets as cold as it can get.
When it arrives, the coldest the sink can provide, I lift my foot into the air and place it beneath the faucet. Drops of blood hit the floor as I lift and I lean over to wipe them with my clean hand.
The water meets the flesh and everything is pink. The pink runs down the drain and more pink follows it. The cold cauterizes the pain, and the Fury cleans it licks its lips of the last of it and fades away. I stand and I wait. I clean my hand. Everything is pink. Blood is flowing.
After a moment or two a few brief moments, the pressure from the water seals the wounds on my toe and closes the torn ends of the broken vessels. The toe throbs. It’s not so bad. I would rather have the throb than the alternative. I would rather feed it then let it run wild.
I turn off the water and I remove my foot from the sink and I walk back to my bed. I put on my sock and I put on my shoe. I leave the Room.
It is almost time for me to leave, almost ten o’clock. I walk into the Unit. Men are scattered about the Room. They are watching TV, playing cards, smoking cigarettes and telling stories, waiting for the phone. Leonard is in the Phone Booth and I can hear complaints about the time he is spending there. Complaints, but no action. Against most men there would be action.
I get a cup of coffee. A man dressed in black sweatpants and a black T-shirt is standing against a wall on the Lower Level of the Unit. He is in his mid-twenties and though he is thin, he looks strong. He is smoking a cigarette and he is staring at me. Something in him strikes me as familiar, though I don’t know from where, and something in him strikes me as menacing, though I do not know why. He is just standing there staring at me. I stand my ground and I stare back. There is no effort behind his stare, he believes whatever it is that is going through his mind. He’s familiar and menacing. I don’t know why.
He chuckles and he moves off the wall and he pulls his eyes away from me and he walks toward one of the couches in front of the TV and he sits down. I watch him the entire way. I stood my ground, I have a feeling I will need to stand again.
I walk back to my Room with my coffee. Miles is sitting on his bed polishing his clarinet. He looks up at me when I enter.
What’s up, Miles?
Not a thing, James. How are you?
I’m okay.
I sit on my bed, start putting on warmer clothes.
How did it go with your Parents this evening?
Fine, I guess.
How did they react?
Not as badly as I thought they would, but bad enough.
How did you feel about it?
About the same.
But more ashamed than anything else?
Probably.
Shame is a terrible thing. Necessary, but terrible.
You’re still fighting with it?
I suspect I am going to be for a long time.
Why?
I am not a good man, James.
You’re a Judge. You can’t be that bad.
I am a Judge, but in my heart, I know I don’t deserve to sit in judgment over anyone.
You’re just being hard on yourself.
He shakes his head.
I haven’t told anyone this, though the Staff knows, but I have been here before. This is my second term at this Clinic.
When was your first?
The first time was years ago. I came because, like now, I had a very bad drinking problem, a problem that nearly destroyed me. It almost destroyed my career, and in many ways, it destroyed my first marriage, which was to a wonderful woman with whom I had a son.
How old is he?
He’s twelve now. He’s a fine young man. I wish I got to see him more.
So you’re here again, that is nothing to be ashamed of.
He sets down his clarinet.
It is, James,