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Why do they feel at peace when they see themself bleeding?
They have that nagging anxious thought in the back of their head telling them, “you’re gonna bleed out soon, you have to bandage it- hurry up.” but sometimes they just get transfixed.
They see the red liquid pouring off their fingers and they can’t help but stare, admire if you will.
Sometimes it’s a curiosity, a grounding feeling. That red liquid is what keeps them alive, it’s what’s pumping through their veins at all times. I am human. I am alive. This is proof that they’re alive. That they’re not just some lifeless being floating through space tricking people into thinking they’re a tangible person. That they’re important to them.
Other times it’s just this peaceful quiet. Their thoughts just blank, the feeling of panic or haste just floats away and all that they focus on is the blood dripping all over their hand, falling onto the counter, staining the surface. Drying and crusting over time, flaking eventually. It’s just- so peaceful, and calm.
With the calm they usually eventually drift to thoughts of rage and violence; panic and grief.
Of, “There might be another time I see this, in a different setting.”
Thoughts of crying and begging enter their head, flashes of palms coming back dripping and that bone-deep dizziness that fills you with dread. Whoever’s with them (I hope somebody’s with them) begging them to fight, to put pressure on the wound- voice muddled behind whatever fog settles in their mind. They’d keep their palms interlaced over the entry wound, sometimes there’s a knife sticking out, other times it’s just the nauseating rush of liquid past their hands. But the exhaustion of blood loss making the idea of letting themself just drift too enticing to pass.
The thing that usually snaps them out of it is the overwhelming scent of iron. Once it settles in the air it’s so strong; lingering in the air even after you’ve cleaned and scrubbed. It’s in surgery rooms, hospitals. You smell it, the iron and sickness mixing with the unnaturally clean smell of the hospital that has the underlying presence of pestilence. It’s subtle enough that somebody with a lesser sense of smell wouldn’t be bothered but it drives them insane.
It makes their brain flash thoughts of flaking blood falling to the floor, the gushing of a wound hit too deep, broken noses, blood smeared on teeth. They take it as it comes, letting the images wash over them. It makes them uncomfortable, the edge of unease poking at them.
Once it passes they resume their life, never letting people know what they experience. It’s generally normal for them; too many years of the flashing images and flirtations of rage made them desensitized.
It's sometimes isolating, but it's bearable.