After Loss
by Addison Affleck
Frozen, I lifted the dagger from my palm. The blade bit into the creases of my hand, filling my mouth with the taste of metal and rust. Yet, oddly, my skin remained colorless; those familiar ribbons of red paint failed to appear. Then I realized I felt nothing.
That was Friday—when I learned I had forgotten how to bleed.
“Everyone must lose something so that they can become stronger,” my mother used to tell me as a child. “Pain makes you stronger, empathetic. We all must lose things.”
“Is it scary?” I had asked her.
“No, don’t worry. It won’t really hurt you. You won’t even particularly feel sad. You will just wake up and it will be gone—and you will be stronger because of it.”
As I grew up, her words followed me. Whenever I lay down in bed—eyes closed, breath still, ears pricked—I thought of the many things I could lose. Uncle had only lost his tie, not evening recognizing his loss until just before Mom and Dad’s wedding; I wanted my loss to be like that too, something simple and meaningless. As the morning air flowed, I stared at the ceiling and made a long list of all the things I couldn’t exactly remember the names of. In one way this exhilarated me; it gave me a sense of power and hope that the future wouldn’t be so bad. Yet also I was afraid, afraid of losing the few things I cherished, and at the back of my mind I feared that no matter how many things I wrote down on my list, my loss would never be among them.
Dad never told me what he had lost before he died. They say losing your life doesn’t count, so it must have been something quite shameful to quiet such a proud man. I pictured him telling my mother—standing with his fingers twitching, whispering between soft sighs. I imagined my mother, his opposite, reciting the same speech she always quoted—something about not feeling sad, that the wrongness will pass, that it will make him stronger. Suddenly, a part of me realized why he had never told us.
My brother lost his eyes a couple of years ago. He told us from the crack beneath his door frame, then locked himself behind it for a long time. Sometimes he let Mom go in there with him; I imagined her piercing eyes gazing sharply into his butchered face. When my brother finally opened the door, I was careful not to stare too long at his new appearance as I grasped his hand and ran down to the basement. There, I asked him what it had felt like. He didn’t answer for a while, which prompted me to look up at him. At this, our eyes met, and he gave me a cold, punishing look—the kind that makes your heart feel smaller. “It felt like nothing,” he whispered.
That’s when I figured that Mom must have been right about it all.
So, I stood there, dagger in hand, feeling the Friday wind blow my hair and chill my face. I felt nothing. I ripped the knife from my hand and stabbed it deep into my chest. I didn’t bleed.
Then I walked to Mom’s room. She sat reading a small book on the grandfather chair. Only did she look up when I whispered her name so softly that I didn’t think the air had even heard me. Silence fell around us, as though we were stealing ourselves for some sort of surprise. Then she let out a shrill kind of sound and ran to me.
I looked down at the knife inside my chest. Streams of red liquid poured out of it, running down my shirt and all over my pants.
“I feel nothing,” I said softly.
Then she looked up at me, as though this were something sad, so I kissed her as I realized how much stronger I had just made her.
That was Friday—when I learned I had forgotten how to bleed.
“Everyone must lose something so that they can become stronger,” my mother used to tell me as a child. “Pain makes you stronger, empathetic. We all must lose things.”
“Is it scary?” I had asked her.
“No, don’t worry. It won’t really hurt you. You won’t even particularly feel sad. You will just wake up and it will be gone—and you will be stronger because of it.”
As I grew up, her words followed me. Whenever I lay down in bed—eyes closed, breath still, ears pricked—I thought of the many things I could lose. Uncle had only lost his tie, not evening recognizing his loss until just before Mom and Dad’s wedding; I wanted my loss to be like that too, something simple and meaningless. As the morning air flowed, I stared at the ceiling and made a long list of all the things I couldn’t exactly remember the names of. In one way this exhilarated me; it gave me a sense of power and hope that the future wouldn’t be so bad. Yet also I was afraid, afraid of losing the few things I cherished, and at the back of my mind I feared that no matter how many things I wrote down on my list, my loss would never be among them.
Dad never told me what he had lost before he died. They say losing your life doesn’t count, so it must have been something quite shameful to quiet such a proud man. I pictured him telling my mother—standing with his fingers twitching, whispering between soft sighs. I imagined my mother, his opposite, reciting the same speech she always quoted—something about not feeling sad, that the wrongness will pass, that it will make him stronger. Suddenly, a part of me realized why he had never told us.
My brother lost his eyes a couple of years ago. He told us from the crack beneath his door frame, then locked himself behind it for a long time. Sometimes he let Mom go in there with him; I imagined her piercing eyes gazing sharply into his butchered face. When my brother finally opened the door, I was careful not to stare too long at his new appearance as I grasped his hand and ran down to the basement. There, I asked him what it had felt like. He didn’t answer for a while, which prompted me to look up at him. At this, our eyes met, and he gave me a cold, punishing look—the kind that makes your heart feel smaller. “It felt like nothing,” he whispered.
That’s when I figured that Mom must have been right about it all.
So, I stood there, dagger in hand, feeling the Friday wind blow my hair and chill my face. I felt nothing. I ripped the knife from my hand and stabbed it deep into my chest. I didn’t bleed.
Then I walked to Mom’s room. She sat reading a small book on the grandfather chair. Only did she look up when I whispered her name so softly that I didn’t think the air had even heard me. Silence fell around us, as though we were stealing ourselves for some sort of surprise. Then she let out a shrill kind of sound and ran to me.
I looked down at the knife inside my chest. Streams of red liquid poured out of it, running down my shirt and all over my pants.
“I feel nothing,” I said softly.
Then she looked up at me, as though this were something sad, so I kissed her as I realized how much stronger I had just made her.
Addison Affleck is a 17-year-old high school student residing in Seattle, Washington. She loves to write short, psychological fiction and persona poetry that centers around the people who have most influenced her life. In her free time, she loves to play music on the viola, garden at her community garden, and read fantasy and classical literature. She has previously been published in her school's literary magazine and by the Hibiscus Review from the Asian Pacific Islander School in Hawaii.