The Red Thread

I follow a red string down my throat, hands pulling to tug it free. I follow it down to see where it goes. I need to know its hold on me. I fold over myself and vomit from the sting as I yank on that red thread. It's woven into my being, and I think to continue would unspool me.

I'm sick and shaking, yet reach further in. I need to know at what point this does end. Can I untie it from where it has grown. Will I just loose a leg, an arm? Or is it my heart, my liver? What sinister spot has it slipped into a knot and weaved in and out. What would I be unraveling? And I am not finding the answer as my hands reach down and I choke and gag.

I relent, grab a glass of water, toss it down. The red stays tight between my index and thumb, least it disappear again. This thread, it burns like a heated blade. It summons grief and sorrow. It eats at my mind and poisons every good day.

Again, I jerk and tug, but to not avail. At last, fevering and mad, I seize a pair of scissors and cut it as far down as I can. With more water, I wash down the end. If I cannot see it, maybe its effects will go away. Maybe it will dissolve into nothing.

But in the morning when I wake, its hanging from the corner of my mouth. It has grown again, somehow. Sobbing, I seize and sit on the carpeted floor. It hurts more today when I pull, but slowly I pry away at it. Each tug of progress summons forth a wave of memories and pain. Pain so vivid and colorful. I must know where it ends.

So I unravel myself that day, bit by bit. It is agonizing and pitiful. My heart is lost in the process, my lungs, my feet. I need to know where it stops. I need to know where it ends. Eventually, I am aware that it goes on and on. The red string is so long that it might never end. I am tangled in the floor. A heap of red and tears. My eyes are wet, seeping tears with sorrow and fear. I am drowning and disappearing. The more I pull, the more I dissolve into this pile of grief.

Where does it end? Where does it end? I must know. It must end. There must be something of me left that is mine and untainted. Alas, with three more yanks, I am gone. Nothing is left but the thread.

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I think some stories are best told quickly. Read over like a poem, but with the structure of a story. Greif strikes us and has a long hold, but the spurts where it overtakes us are sudden and come on quickly. So this story is short and bitter. Depression spells feel to me a lot like this, like losing a bit of myself in pain and trying desperately to reach the end of it. Fittingly, this imagery came to me while I was hand stitching the finishing touches on the waistband of a skirt I have been making. It is always interesting to me how my hobbies and daily tasks become the metaphors for how I am feeling. I tend to use them as a lens to process my emotions because it is much easier that bluntly admitting how I feel. Originally, I did have a more direct and bleak ending to the short story, but I thought that it might be too dark for community guidelines and also too upsetting or triggering for some readers. Of course, had I gone darker, I would have tossed this into horror.