What you see

I submitted the exactingly short story below to a website called Six Sentence Story. Turn six sentences into a story... My contribution is called "Painting Moments".

"Even pain can be pretty if applied properly with smooth, efficient strokes. Sitting on a magenta towel to protect the floor from possible stains, I wondered why I still cared about maintaining order, when it was obvious that my attempts were futile. The weight of the week's rejections had buoyed slightly as I glimpsed the glint of the small bottle at the bottom of my densely packed closet. Once again, I hadn't gotten the job, and once again, the man was ignoring me. My obligatory morning meditation had revealed nothing worthwhile, so I decided to act quickly before my mind changed. The first stroke brought crisp glossy red relief, and with eager hands, I painted my way from that less than perfect moment."

Flash fiction seemed to suit my impulsive nature. I desperately needed to write and it needed to be done quickly. So it was done. The response to my entry was equally swift. At first it was complimentary (I'll spare you the details).

Then someone commented:

"Oooo. I never understood cutting. I hope this is fiction."

Followed by:

"I share your disappointments, as I share them. Mostly, I hope your are Ok."

Then:

"I know two young ladies who did this. No matter how much comfort I gave them, they only concentrated on how they perceived the world."

My response:

"... I [am] astonished to see that I had been diagnosed a cutter. Perhaps it's my fault. I wanted to convey a sense of discontent and borderline dysfunction. But although the blood imagery was intentional it was not at all literal. I thought it was socially acceptable to bleed through writing."

The lady doth protest too much. I didn't owe any of these people an apology or explanation for writing a story about nail polish. Ironically, I had editted the story so that it would be obvious that I was talking about red nail polish. The original version was more ambiguously suggestive of cutting. Editting was a waste of time since the original tone remained. Somehow I thought I could sneak it in without anyone noticing. It was immensely satisfying to paint the picture but not at the cost of triggering a damn intervention. I just needed to let some things out with a few strokes.

Okay, I know that sometimes I creep some people out. My dark place shines brightly within me. I wander there often but it isn't on purpose. For me, it's peaceful there, dimly lit and sobering like a graveyard. I don't know how to be any other way and editting doesn't work. You see what you see. So let me bleed ( figuratively at least). If it bothers you, look away.