Hematoma Ch. 01

The autumn sun streamed through my kitchen window that morning, gleaming on the blackened patches of skin on my arms where ink lay. I was half-dressed at the table, just me and my jeans. Scraps of scrambled egg and bagel crumbs stuck wetly to a plate in the sink from my breakfast, where they would probably remain for a day or two until I decided to do the dishes again. It was my day off from work. And I had chosen to start it with this.

Psychologists in this day and age have long discussed the idea that masochism derives from some deep-seated self-hatred or desire for self-harm. The argument suggests that those who are masochistic were perhaps abused as children, or have something about themselves they believe they must be punished for.

I can't say that these theories aren't true for the entire world. But I can say with confidence that these weren't true for me. I grew up spoiled and loved by my nuclear family. I didn't hate myself and I certainly didn't want to die. I had no guilt in me that I want to be punished for.

Except the guilt of punishing myself in the first place.

On the chair next to me is a first aid kit. On the table in front of me are a bowl of ice water, a folded handkerchief, a candle, and a steel piercing needle.

I struck a match and lit the unscented, white candle. The scent of carbon sat thick in the air for a moment. It was not the same sort of candle I had around the house on the surfaces of my dresser or coffee table. It only had one purpose, maybe two at most.

For a moment I stared at the tiny flame atop its wick, fluttering as it consumed the oxygen around it. The next thing I reached for was the handkerchief. Black and white striped. I lifted it to my mouth, parted my teeth, and clenched it between my molars on the left side. The walls were thin in my apartment, so I'd rather no one heard this. Or at least, I'd rather they heard it less.

My right hand reached for the needle. It was thick and long, of polished steel, and regularly cleaned. My fingers were trembling. I'm always like this in the beginning. The tension goes away once I actually start. The nerves relax. The mind clears.

The tip of the needle was put to the flame, about half an inch of it submerged. I tried to hold my hand steady. It wouldn't heat properly if it didn't stay still. I needed to keep it there for a whole minute if I was going to do this right.

My right wrist already showed scars from me doing this before. It was a technique I learned when I decided I couldn't use the piercing needle in my hand for its rightful purpose. Not that I was a stranger to piercing. My face was lined with surgical steel. The cartilage of my ears was full of silver piercings. The first holes I got in them were now half-inch wide gauges, held open with ebony plugs. An industrial bar traversed the shell of my ear like a bridge.

All these combined with the patterns of ink running up and down my arms and shoulders were souvenirs of my dangerous vice.

The needle looked hot enough. Carefully I positioned myself as always. My left hand gripped a corner of the handkerchief in my teeth; my left elbow braced itself on the table. I turned the needle so its blunt edge was squeezed between my fingers, its point at my bare wrist. My hand was shaking again. I inhaled sharply through the polyester and tilted the needle down against my skin.

White hot pain shot up my arm. My immediate reaction was to want to pull the hot metal away from my seared skin. I bit down on the cloth harder, hissing through my teeth. It was almost unbearable... but only at first. My nerves were alight with activity, screaming their message back to my brain. Stop now. It hurts. It's painful. I felt as though the needle was melting through my flesh like animal fat. I was in agony. My body was begging me to stop... and begging for more.

It felt incredible.

Within at least ten seconds the pleasure I felt from the burning turned back into ugly, brutish pain. I dropped the needle with shaking fingers, instead plunging my hand into the bowl of ice water. The ice and the pain in my wrist hurt so wonderfully... It was still throbbing through my veins. My fingers were going numb and my new wound was stinging. I groaned into my handkerchief. My head was down on the table, left hand delving into the fly of my jeans. I was hard already. I breathed heavily against the laminated wood, shuddering as the stinging pain in my wrist ebbed away to a steady, hot pulse. The more the ache subsided, the more I craved its return... I wanted more... I wanted to feel that agony again.

In an aroused panic I looked up from the table, the handkerchief still between my teeth. It would take too long to heat the needle again. By the time it was hot enough to burn the sensation would be gone. I staggered up from my seat, my bare feet chilled on the kitchen tile. I was vaguely aware of my nails digging themselves into my palm. It's the kitchen; I've got to have something here. I'm surrounded by the tools of my trade, makeshift weapons and toys. My eyes flicked over the cutting block, the gas stove, the canister full of cooking implements. Breathing fast, I reached for the cutlery drawer, pulling it open with a crash. My tingling fingers found a steak knife. The serrated blade gleamed at me. I felt a twitch between my thighs. My hand was shaking again. I brought the tip to the palm of my hand...

No. No, no, no.

Quaking, I carefully returned the steak knife to its rightful place. Not good. I had to be careful with these urges. I had to take care of the wound I had already made. I pulled the wet handkerchief from my mouth, eyes fluttering as I exhaled. I was coming down off the high from my burn. I could think more clearly now. I went back to my chair and sank into it in relief, and slowly I felt the heat in my abdomen quelling. I opened the first aid kit.

This is how things had been for years. I was addicted to pain and the sexual release it brought me, completely enveloped in my vice. I couldn't do much with myself anymore, as I always went for more dangerous things in the heat of the moment. My mind was constantly full of new ways I could think of injuring myself, of finding that same amazing agony I experienced before. It was best, I thought, to leave my vice to a professional. I rubbed aloe into the new red scar on my arm, next to the white ones that had long since healed up, all identical minute arrowheads.

I had begun to rely on professional help to serve my increasingly unmanageable addiction years ago. I had at first considered S&M clubs... Living in a big city, I imagined I could have plenty of options where I could be whipped and flogged by some bitch in a latex suit. But that sort of thing never did anything for me, and I had never wanted to be made into that sort of person; the sort who goes to these dark little clubs amidst sweaty, fat older men looking to escape their wives' nagging under a Dominatrix's paddle. No, that wasn't me.

I had turned instead to my local tattoo parlor. I could indulge in a safe, clean pain, and at the end I had something pretty to show for it. The ink on my arms and the holes in my face were trophies of my desire, my arms an interlacing bramble of roses and trees. But I had become addicted to body modification, and it was a costly lifestyle that kept me in the lower end of town, in a shit apartment, living off wages made by moving boxes in a warehouse. At the age of 26 I was still eating cup noodles. Not that I altogether minded my poverty. I was comfortable where I was living and never dreamed of a better life. But it was a reminder; just more shame of what I had become.

My wounds treated, I zipped up my first aid kid and began to clear up my mess. Bowl of ice water into the sink. Handkerchief into the washing machine behind the slatted door in the kitchen. Candle extinguished and returned to the kitchen counter next to the coffee pot. The needle I picked up and carried with me to my bedroom, where a large blue canvas box was sitting out with my 'playthings' in it next to the bed. I picked it up and sat down on the mattress, the brass bed-frame banging against the wall as I moved. One hand dug in the box for the piercing kit, the other reached to my nightstand for my cell phone. I had to make a call.

Contacts, Inkjet, Call this number.

My digging fingers found the little rolled bundle with the piercing needles inside. I unrolled it as I waited for the number to pick up.

A woman's voice answered me, muffled music playing in the background. "Thanks for calling Inkjet on South Street, what can I do for you."

"Karen, hey, it's me," I said.

There was a pause on the other end. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Shay, sorry. Took me a second there. How's your ear, you cleaning it?"

The industrial bar in my left ear had been the last thing I'd gotten done. "It's fine, it healed up pretty fast," I told her, tucking the needle back into the roll. "I still have my appointment for noon today, right?"

Another pause.

"Kar?"

"Shit."

"Shit, what," I repeated monotonously, shoving the bundle into my box and closing the lid.

"Look, it's not like I forgot you, Shay, just, so much has been going on..." Karen began.

"Well that's okay, as long as Em doesn't have anyone booked for noon we're good, right? I can still come in?" I said.

"No, that's the thing, I mean... Emily walked out on us."

"... Are you serious?" Emily was my usual artist. I'd finally become comfortable around her enough to not hold back my reactions to her needle, and now... "When did she leave?"

"About a week ago. She suddenly told me we weren't paying her well enough and that she'd find better work. But in all that, I had so many people I had to reschedule with our other artists; I must have skimmed you over. I'm sorry, Shay."

I ran a hand through my hair. I couldn't understand why Emily had skipped out and not told me. She was probably the only person I'd ever been okay around enough to show my true self. And without telling me, she leaves. Fucking cunt.

"Shay?"

"Yeah?" I answered, sighing.

"Look, I don't want to just cancel your appointment, I know you already paid us in advance. So just come in today at noon and I'll set you up with another artist."

"Who with?"

There was yet another pause, maybe the sound of shuffling paper. I couldn't be too sure. "Uhm, let's see. Ricky... Sorry, Yorick is free today around noon." There was more shuffling and a sigh. "Actually, he seems to be free all day. Why the fuck are you here!?" I heard her yell away from the phone.

I mulled this over in her absence. I wasn't too sure about letting another stranger see my reactions. I'd have to go back to hiding it. And what if this other artist – a man to boot – just didn't do the same job Emily did? What if it just didn't feel as good?

Karen interrupted my thoughts at her return. "Anyway, he does great work, Shay. I don't think you'll be too disappointed."

In the back of my mind I doubted this, but Karen had a point. I had already paid for the appointment. Not to show up would just be a waste.

"So, noon then?" I said.

"Sure, or just come whenever," confirmed Karen.

"See you then."

"See ya."

She hung up before I could. Karen was all business.

My phone call done with, I was left to ponder my new situation. I was about to submit myself to the needle of a strange man, someone who was going to see my ugly pleasure. I'd have to be able to keep control of myself.

I thought of the distress and desperation of my arousal from burning myself not half an hour before. A shudder. A swallow. I closed my eyes.

No, I wouldn't let him see that.