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Part 1: Drip. Drip. Drip. No Kali. Don’t. Put it down. You’re doing so well. Well you won’t be for much longer if you do this. You’ll have to restart everything. From day one. The voice cajoling me out of this, faded in and out. The bathroom was grubby and vacant. Basement bathrooms were never cleaned in this school. My breathing slackens. Time slows. The incessant dripping of the tap ceases. ‘Come on Kali.’ A more caliginous voice hisses sinuously. ‘You’ll feel better.’ I close my eyes and shake my head. My hands tremble. CRACK. My fist slams into the riven glass over the minuscule washbasin. Fire erupts in my hand. Agony. It was temporary. I’ll feel better soon. I know I will. I peel off a large and clean piece. This is the last time, I think to myself. I’ll stop after this. I know what I’m doing. Then the tiles, those sordid, stained, cracked tiles that had no doubt seen many unspeakable things, bathed in a wave of my filthiest arcana. Pain and relief were two sides of the same coin. In this trice of a moment, which lasted a millenia I only knew one thing; this is me.
Part 2: There was a knock on the door. It had been three hours. Endless scrubbing and cleaning. Wiping away evidence. The tiles were now cleaner, shinier and more polished than they had ever been, in their lives. I whip around, throwing the last rag into the bin. Mikhail walks in, their eyes bewildered and suspicious. ‘Mishenka.’ I say cautiously. Mikhail just crosses their arms and leans on the doorframe. ‘Odd place to wag class Kali.’ Mikhail’s tone was chary and dubious. ‘God forbid a girl wants a change of scenery.’ I yawn nonchalantly, trying desperately to lighten the mood. The tension was thick enough to cut. Mikhail’s hand darts out and grabs my elbow; yanking the sleeve up. I recoil, snatching my arm back and cradling it like a newborn. ‘What the hell was that?’ I snap at Mikhail. ‘I’m dealing with it. Okay? Don’t grab me like that.’ I mumble defensively. Mikhail just sighs. ‘Like you dealt with your depression? Like you dealt with your abusive parents? How about your burnout?’ Their voice was full of concern and exhaustion. Exhaustion of seeing me hurt myself again and again while brushing it off and saying I was fine. ‘I’m getting better.’ The words were quiet and half-hearted. Mikhail doesn’t even bother giving me a dignified response. If I truly believed that, I was delusional. ‘Better? At what? Not hurting yourself or better at hiding the pain?’ They ask with finality. I open my mouth and shut it. They knew, and so did I, that I had no idea.