Tiger Oil

“Arrrgh.”

                A muffled sound escapes my mouth as the blade slides over the scarred skin of my leg, rewarding me with a crimson flow of fresh blood. I mentally kick myself, fearing that someone had heard.

                They Know. I think. They know this is happening. They heard me. They’ll be here any second.

                But that doesn’t stop the blade from ripping the skin again, slitting it and releasing another scarlet tide. Three times, four, five.

                They’ll be here any minute.

                Suddenly the grey eyes staring back at me in the mirror look foreign.  They are no longer the crystal like blue-grey that had earned them so much attention. No, they were not those clever, playful eyes. They were haggard, worn out eyes that stared back at me blankly. Shot with blood, unfocused, and distant looking. Clouded with hate.

                Hate for their owner, and hate of the blade.

                And then, just as suddenly, I can hear the blade hit the floor, but it’s distant. And I know that I can’t do this anymore, that tonight it won’t bring me any comfort.

                I dive for the counter, snatching a glass bottle, fumbling briefly with the child safety cap, and dump some of its clear liquid onto my exposed arm. It soaks into my ghost-white flesh, and my thoughts go for a moment to the blade on the floor.

                One more couldn’t hurt…

                But then the smell hits me. It’s a very distinct one, somewhat minty, but different. And familiar. I’ve smelled this before, I know I have, but I can’t place it.

                And then the burning starts. It licks up my arms, like white hot tongues of flame, destroying my snow-coloured skin. But when I look at my arm, the skin is fine, as pale as ever.

                But the burning! It’s almost worse than a real burn, and I had plenty of experience to be able to say that. It feels like tiger claws are shredding my arm, like a particularly nasty venom has taken root in my veins. The acrid smell stings my eyes, making them water, and my throat hurts as though I’m breathing in smoke.

                I drop to my knees; the burning penetrates deep inside me. And It feels almost cold, but definitely not numb.

My thoughts race.

What if this was a mistake? What if I’m allergic to this stuff and I’m going to die?

I lay there, shuddering on the cold floor, every sense alive with the feeling. I can see my  fingers twitching, the bones in my hand moving spastically. But they don’t look like my hands. They’re too far away, they can’t be.

The bottle lays near me, it’s label turned towards me; A tiger, leaping, his huge fangs bared. His gigantic hind feet are planted on the words “Tiger Oil,” his massive fore paws outstretched.

To think just a few drops of this oil was enough to feel like a hundred burns, enough to make me stop. I lay on the ground, my sighs shuddering through difficult breaths, shocked, but recovering. My mind is beginning to slow down, to think more clearly.

My eyes are drawn to a sparkle somewhere to my left. With a great deal of effort, I turn to see my blade, resting on the floor, a few drops of blood still clinging to its edge.

And I had no desire to pick it up.