Migraine
[This might be part of my upcoming #RiverNovel  . Caution: This is some of the goriest writing I've ever done.]

"the best horror... forces us to confront ideas we might rather ignore, and challenges preconceptions of all kinds."
 Elements of Aversion, Elizabeth Barrette

Thoughts and feelings that are trapped in or outside my head push pain into my skull. A drill bores through my left temple. Pain radiates down through my ear, down the side of my neck, and into my shoulder. It splits into one path down my spinal chord, and another path into my shoulder joint that radiates and clogs in my forearm.

When I try rolling out of bed to rise and shine so I can keep my date with him, the pain surges. Anticipation of time with him tries to cheer me up, but the pain cripples me.

I have to get up and pee. The furniture and walls support me along the way while I press on the pain that is trying to shoot out of my temple -- or in. I suppress both directions.

Sitting on the toilet seat. The shredded lace curtain is hanging closed. The bricked-over window of the house next door has one remaining pane of glass, reflecting the early glaring sun at me. The light smooths out my skin, and a little sweat glistens on my arm hairs when the air is still and warm. My skin goose-bumps when the breeze whisks in. 

The sun also glistens on the knife that I tossed into the corner. It rests in the handcrafted rug that someone made in a third-world country. Someone worked for slave wages, cutting each loop of the woven fabric, to make a mat that caresses and dries my feet when I step out of the shower.

I lean forward, hanging my head down to shut out the light that is revving the drill. I can't get it to stop which way it's going: in or out. My head hanging helps move blood through it; blood that can flush the pain without shattering my temple. I can reach the knife.

Light bounces off the blade, and forms bright patterns on the wall. They wiggle and flash around, bouncing off specks of dust in the sun rays. 

I press the tip of the knife on my forearm, making an indentation that reflects a rainbow ray. I play with the knife, putting pressure on it, and releasing it, twirling the reflection. My skin has become more resistant to piercing that when it was plumped with youth.

The area around the knife tip wrinkles as it indents. Let's see how deeply I can press the point without cutting the skin. I tease myself, slowly pressing in, holding it there, pressing in again, releasing it part way, pressing in a little, releasing it more...

Heat is building in me as I feel tormented, deprived of the pleasure of that piercing. I yearn for the release, but I let the frenzy and desire grow in me. I am strong against the temptation. I am good at depriving myself of what I want. I feel the blood pulsing, eager to be free. My skin welcomes the blade, urging it to press deeper, but I release the pressure just as the blade threatens to release blood. This was never possible when I was younger, or at least it never occurred to me to torment myself so.

I transport to fields of yellow and black sunflowers bobbing their heads, bright moonlight casting sharp shadows, colorful tweety birds nestled in trees while bats flit across a sparkling gray meadow, a trickle of a stream passing through as the knife finally enters, as my skin finally gives way and opens to the knife blade. Euphoria replaces the blood that drains. I wriggle with the tingling, panting with the thrill, breathing out with contractions that convulse in my abdomen. My head shakes out the constriction in my neck. I cry into the feeling of release. Release from restraint. Restraint from the code of good behavior. Restraint from expectations. The secrets in my heart are revealed now, out of hiding, uncovered by any sleeve.

The blade sparkles as it reflects the sunlight, and reveals what is concealed in me: my feisty spirit, my anger, my bloodthirsty desire for revenge. I am a wicked sinner. Rather than attack anyone else, I attack the person who is always with me, constantly available, and who is the most vulnerable to attacks. My body cannot defend itself against me. Nor should it, when it so reliably interferes with my most passionate longings by imposing damn-frustrating limitations, like migraines. That damned drill in my temple starts up again.

The knife enters deeper, redirecting my attention to the sensation of the whirling of my picturesque thoughts. The heat of the sunlight. The fuzziness of the sunflowers. The sleekness of the meadow. The sweet smell of dew. 

My body, violated by the penetration as I lie limp, overpowered by my attacker. I crave more penetration. I urge it in. My body floods with pleasure. Sweetness exuding, lubricating the blade, urging it along. Then, the shudder of release. The relief of being undiscovered, uninterrupted again. My head clears. All pressure is gone. All appointments are called off. There is no world beyond my skin. It's just me, suspended in space. I go limp in a pool of damp stickiness. The breeze chills me as it sweeps over my exposed body. I feel exhausted, ready to cover up, and escape to sleep.

********************

I'm wondering if this is convincing. I'm out on a limb of ignorance here, just transcribing what came to me.

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