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Description
Bind

Dried blood. Sweat. Pus. Together, they created the smell that only the god's could have possibly invented. Even that was an understatement. The scent was otherworldly. The taste was even better. The flavours would dance on your tongue, their precise steps sending shivers down your spine. Plasters were a godsend, for more than one reason.

Carefully, I held the thin piece of woven fabric between my fingers. My eyes stared down at the marvelous, blood-stained bandage. My fingers were trembling with anticipation. A wide grin formed on my lips. Slowly, I brought the adhesive up towards my face. It hovered just below my nostrils and was mere millimetres away from my skin.

I breathed in. It was a long, drawn-out breath. That mesmerising scent hit my senses and consumed them like a hungry snake consumes its prey. Savouring the smell, I inhaled for as long as physically possible. I could feel my lips quivering. My hands shook. Unintentionally, I exhaled.

And it was gone.

Sighing, I lowered my hands and placed them in my lap. The plaster gazed up at me, watching me with pleading eyes. Averting my eyes, I threw the bandage into the nearby bin. For a few seconds, I couldn't bare to look. However, I forced myself to check the damage. First, I glanced around the surrounding area of the bin. It wasn't there. Therefore, I assumed it had reached its destination.

Looking down at my hands, I examined the plasters that were wrapped around my fingers. Some were older than others and would soon be ready to take off and replace. The ring finger on my right hand was the only finger exposed. On the top section, a bit underneath the nail, was a a rather long, dark scar. The damaged skin served as a guideline for my razor.

Reaching over to my right, I pulled out a tissue from the box that was resting on my bed. Folding it once, I placed it on my thigh and rested my right hand on it. Usually, I was careful enough to disallow any spillages. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

Picking up my recently-cleaned razor from the bed I was sitting on, I pushed the blade against the scar. With enough force, the blade broke skin and forced the blood underneath to show itself. Crimson beads formed on my pallid skin and gradually began to grow. They were free, but remained still on my finger like obedient pets.

Gently, I brought the razor towards me, carefully cutting along the line. More liquid life emerged, eager to see what was happening. They watched from a distance, unmoving, like a crowd watches a suspect being taken away in a police car.

When I reached the end of the guideline, I lifted the reliable blade from skin, produced another tissue from the box and placed the weeping razor on the soft, thin material. Using my available left hand, I reached over to my right and picked up another box. Inside this one were the virtues of my life. My eyes searched around for a while before I found one that I liked the look of. Picking it out, I began the task of putting it on.

It was always difficult putting on new plasters with just one hand. Pulling off the backing was very difficult, but I had developed a knack for it after doing it for so long. Removing the covering, I brought the plaster over to my oozing ring finger. Another difficulty was placing the plaster on the skin accurately. One wrong move and it was all ruined.

The band hovered just above the incision. Holding my breath, I lowered it down onto my flesh, over the seeping wound. I felt it cling to my flesh like a scared child clings to its mother. It held onto me for comfort, like I held onto my razor for support.

Gently, I wrapped the plaster around my bony finger. It wrapped around once perfectly, concealing the fresh cut and its crimson child. The products of my own destruction were safely protected within the fabric confines of the plaster, marinading. A faint smile dashed across my lips at the thought.

Inspecting my bandaged finger, I examined my handiwork. The plaster was sealed tight to avoid any unwanted infections and to make sure none of the fluids escaped. Carefully, I picked up the tissue containing my reliable razor and slowly made my way to the bathroom. I held the cushioned blade like a parent holds their newborn baby – with care and affection.

Reaching the bathroom, I held the razor over the sink as I cautiously began to wipe it clean with the tissue. The thin material was tainted with cherry red blots as I slid it across the smooth metal. I approached the sharp edges with extra care, not wanting to cause any unnecessary injuries. In a way, the cleansing of my sole tool was calming. It required all my thought, meaning all my worries were swept aside into the deep corners of my mind.

As I finished wiping it down, I went to run the tap. However, something caught my eye. A solitary drop of liquid life had fallen into the sink, its red colour a stark contrast to the white porcelain. It was all alone, the basin seeming larger than what it really was. For a moment I just stared at it. It was unmoving, as if it was so lost it was terrified to move. A twinge of sympathy snuck into my heart.

Reaching over to the tap, I allowed water to break through the floodgates. Almost instantly, the blood was washed away by the water. All that was left was the taint of red that mixed and mingled with the water, following it down into the expecting drain.

Holding the razor under the tap, I let the water cleanse it as I turned it around. The clear water rushed down the metal and fell from the sharp edges, mimicking waterfalls. Satisfied that the blade was sterilised, I turned the tap off and grabbed the nearest towel. With the towel I could be a bit more callous, the thicker fabric protecting my vulnerable skin.

Finished with the sterilising routine, I headed back to my bedroom, razor blade in hand. Taking my previous seat on the bed, I reached over to my nightstand and picked up a small, wooden box. Covering it were ornate patterns, carefully carved into the wood. A brass lock clasped the box shut, keeping things both in and out. Luckily, I had the key.

Picking up the brass key that was resting beside the tissue box, I gently slid it into the lock of the box. Turning it a bit to the right, I listened for the soft click. As I heard it, a faint smile dashed across my lips. I lifted the lid up with the utmost care.

The familiar tune of the music box fluttered into my ears and slipped into my brain, unlocking a box of its own. Memories of purification sprang to mind, along with the tiniest touches of salvation and completion. It was safe to say that the box – and what it would soon contain – fulfilled me.

The soft cushioning that lined the music box was a bright scarlet, similar to the colour of my lifeforce as it exits me through the cracks I make. It is the perfect resting place for my blade. Maybe one day I will let it dwell for eternity.

That's the entire reason behind it all. The guidelines, the box, the lock and key. It is all for one reason. To some people, I may seem crazy. My own life and future lingers upon just one 'simple' choice.

Placing the razor in its bed, I close the lid of the music box, silencing it. Soon it is locked and put back in its place. But the key still remains on my nightstand, watching me. I don't help myself by keeping it there, in plain view, but I just can't bring myself to put it anywhere else. It is where it belongs, just like the blade is where it should be. Locked away.

Maybe one day it will stay like that.

Description
Bind

Dried blood. Sweat. Pus. Together, they created the smell that only the god's could have possibly invented. Even that was an understatement. The scent was otherworldly. The taste was even better. The flavours would dance on your tongue, their precise steps sending shivers down your spine. Plasters were a godsend, for more than one reason.

Carefully, I held the thin piece of woven fabric between my fingers. My eyes stared down at the marvelous, blood-stained bandage. My fingers were trembling with anticipation. A wide grin formed on my lips. Slowly, I brought the adhesive up towards my face. It hovered just below my nostrils and was mere millimetres away from my skin.

I breathed in. It was a long, drawn-out breath. That mesmerising scent hit my senses and consumed them like a hungry snake consumes its prey. Savouring the smell, I inhaled for as long as physically possible. I could feel my lips quivering. My hands shook. Unintentionally, I exhaled.

And it was gone.

Sighing, I lowered my hands and placed them in my lap. The plaster gazed up at me, watching me with pleading eyes. Averting my eyes, I threw the bandage into the nearby bin. For a few seconds, I couldn't bare to look. However, I forced myself to check the damage. First, I glanced around the surrounding area of the bin. It wasn't there. Therefore, I assumed it had reached its destination.

Looking down at my hands, I examined the plasters that were wrapped around my fingers. Some were older than others and would soon be ready to take off and replace. The ring finger on my right hand was the only finger exposed. On the top section, a bit underneath the nail, was a a rather long, dark scar. The damaged skin served as a guideline for my razor.

Reaching over to my right, I pulled out a tissue from the box that was resting on my bed. Folding it once, I placed it on my thigh and rested my right hand on it. Usually, I was careful enough to disallow any spillages. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

Picking up my recently-cleaned razor from the bed I was sitting on, I pushed the blade against the scar. With enough force, the blade broke skin and forced the blood underneath to show itself. Crimson beads formed on my pallid skin and gradually began to grow. They were free, but remained still on my finger like obedient pets.

Gently, I brought the razor towards me, carefully cutting along the line. More liquid life emerged, eager to see what was happening. They watched from a distance, unmoving, like a crowd watches a suspect being taken away in a police car.

When I reached the end of the guideline, I lifted the reliable blade from skin, produced another tissue from the box and placed the weeping razor on the soft, thin material. Using my available left hand, I reached over to my right and picked up another box. Inside this one were the virtues of my life. My eyes searched around for a while before I found one that I liked the look of. Picking it out, I began the task of putting it on.

It was always difficult putting on new plasters with just one hand. Pulling off the backing was very difficult, but I had developed a knack for it after doing it for so long. Removing the covering, I brought the plaster over to my oozing ring finger. Another difficulty was placing the plaster on the skin accurately. One wrong move and it was all ruined.

The band hovered just above the incision. Holding my breath, I lowered it down onto my flesh, over the seeping wound. I felt it cling to my flesh like a scared child clings to its mother. It held onto me for comfort, like I held onto my razor for support.

Gently, I wrapped the plaster around my bony finger. It wrapped around once perfectly, concealing the fresh cut and its crimson child. The products of my own destruction were safely protected within the fabric confines of the plaster, marinading. A faint smile dashed across my lips at the thought.

Inspecting my bandaged finger, I examined my handiwork. The plaster was sealed tight to avoid any unwanted infections and to make sure none of the fluids escaped. Carefully, I picked up the tissue containing my reliable razor and slowly made my way to the bathroom. I held the cushioned blade like a parent holds their newborn baby – with care and affection.

Reaching the bathroom, I held the razor over the sink as I cautiously began to wipe it clean with the tissue. The thin material was tainted with cherry red blots as I slid it across the smooth metal. I approached the sharp edges with extra care, not wanting to cause any unnecessary injuries. In a way, the cleansing of my sole tool was calming. It required all my thought, meaning all my worries were swept aside into the deep corners of my mind.

As I finished wiping it down, I went to run the tap. However, something caught my eye. A solitary drop of liquid life had fallen into the sink, its red colour a stark contrast to the white porcelain. It was all alone, the basin seeming larger than what it really was. For a moment I just stared at it. It was unmoving, as if it was so lost it was terrified to move. A twinge of sympathy snuck into my heart.

Reaching over to the tap, I allowed water to break through the floodgates. Almost instantly, the blood was washed away by the water. All that was left was the taint of red that mixed and mingled with the water, following it down into the expecting drain.

Holding the razor under the tap, I let the water cleanse it as I turned it around. The clear water rushed down the metal and fell from the sharp edges, mimicking waterfalls. Satisfied that the blade was sterilised, I turned the tap off and grabbed the nearest towel. With the towel I could be a bit more callous, the thicker fabric protecting my vulnerable skin.

Finished with the sterilising routine, I headed back to my bedroom, razor blade in hand. Taking my previous seat on the bed, I reached over to my nightstand and picked up a small, wooden box. Covering it were ornate patterns, carefully carved into the wood. A brass lock clasped the box shut, keeping things both in and out. Luckily, I had the key.

Picking up the brass key that was resting beside the tissue box, I gently slid it into the lock of the box. Turning it a bit to the right, I listened for the soft click. As I heard it, a faint smile dashed across my lips. I lifted the lid up with the utmost care.

The familiar tune of the music box fluttered into my ears and slipped into my brain, unlocking a box of its own. Memories of purification sprang to mind, along with the tiniest touches of salvation and completion. It was safe to say that the box – and what it would soon contain – fulfilled me.

The soft cushioning that lined the music box was a bright scarlet, similar to the colour of my lifeforce as it exits me through the cracks I make. It is the perfect resting place for my blade. Maybe one day I will let it dwell for eternity.

That's the entire reason behind it all. The guidelines, the box, the lock and key. It is all for one reason. To some people, I may seem crazy. My own life and future lingers upon just one 'simple' choice.

Placing the razor in its bed, I close the lid of the music box, silencing it. Soon it is locked and put back in its place. But the key still remains on my nightstand, watching me. I don't help myself by keeping it there, in plain view, but I just can't bring myself to put it anywhere else. It is where it belongs, just like the blade is where it should be. Locked away.

Maybe one day it will stay like that.