Trees. Such vengeful bastards. I looked down at the paper cut on the inside of my finger, and the blood now dripping down it. I sighed and wiped off a nearby bench, no longer interested in the candy bar whose wrapper just mutilated my finger. The bench seat being sanitized, I sat. You never know with these public places. Someone could have just sat down, pissed, and walked away and nobody would be the wiser with all this rain. Cleaning this was worth using the last of my hand sanitizer.
I hate trees. My finger was still bleeding. I grabbed some tissues from my inner jacket pocket and wiped at the blood. I’d have to sanitize it when I get home. If I get home. The trees seem out to get me today. The other benches in the park were empty, all circling the wishing well that serves as the park centerpiece. Some kid was here earlier in the week judging by the well’s new graffiti reading “blood please.”
Aren’t you a badass, I thought. Society says don’t graffiti, stay in school, don’t be a douche bag who probably lives with his mom and thinks he’s a badass because he listens to Meshugga. Society said all of this, and you, Mr. Badass, said no.
Finger’s still bleeding, rain’s still raining, and the trees are still mocking me. I needed to go home, but there wasn’t a waste basket in sight, and I’ll be damned if I just throw this tissue to the ground like Mr. Badass probably would. What’s a guy to do? The wishing well still said “blood please,” so blood I gave it. I stared down the well, and wondered how deep it was. Didn’t matter, because at the bottom was my blood and rain soaked tissue.
Don’t I get a wish? Some hand sanitizer would be nice.
“Hey, Creep!” I see some guy leaning out of their car window, yelling at me. Bleach blonde hair, sunglasses at night, and a Tapout sticker on the door to top it off. Another badass. Badass #2.
“Go cut yourself!” he yelled, laughing. Because I wear black. How clever. Didn’t see that one coming at all. All sarcasm aside, what I didn’t see coming was a bottle lobbed at my face as Badass #2 sped off.
Hand sanitizer. Oh, the irony. And pain. My nose took most of the blow and began to bleed. Badass #2 was nowhere to be seen, and Badass #1’s graffiti seemed to be taunting me. “Blood please.” As I couldn’t get any blood on my jacket and I was out of tissues, I leaned over the edge of the well.
My blood dripped into the well. I had such a headache. I’d like some ibuprofen, but another bottle in the face probably wouldn’t help the throbbing. I just hoped Badass #2 got what was coming to him. My head was ringing. Lights and bells were going off inside my head. I rested at the park, my face dangling over the well, until the bleeding stopped and my head simmered down. Then I went home.
—
I don’t give enough to the relationship, she said as soon as I arrived. I’m never home. I don’t try hard enough. I don’t make enough money. In short, we’re broke, bitter, and butt-fucked by society, and it’s all my fault. Cereal for dinner. I’m sleeping on the couch again. The same thing it’s been every day for as long as I care to remember.
After sanitizing everything that I need to sanitize, I turn on the TV I saved from the building dumpster. I watch the news every day, not because I enjoy hearing about religious wars, gas prices, and Kim Kardashian, but because it’s the only channel I get. The first thing I saw was that damn wishing well. It was in the background of the current scene, but I was offended and irritated nonetheless. I tried ignoring it by paying attention to the headline, when it hit me.
There was a crash by the park. A bad one. Fatal, even. I recognized the Tapout sticker.
I ran to the bathroom, checked the state of the toilet bowl. Not clean enough. I looked around desperately. I felt like I was going to die, and I needed something fast. The sink was clean enough. I’m pathetic, I can’t even throw up in a clean toilet, it must be sanitized. My OCD was getting a little out of hand. I ran to the sink and my stomach and mind finally made a compromise and let me let go. It was disgusting.
The accident had to be a coincidence. I didn’t kill that guy. I mean, he obviously wasn’t the world’s most outstanding citizen, but he didn’t deserve that. I threw up some more. I didn’t even know his name. It was really disgusting.
She barged in, demanding to know what I was doing. I was probably drinking our money away, because I’m such a waste of a person. I ignored her. I’ve gotten good at that. We’re only together any more to cut our living expenses, the finances have gotten that bad. This puke was unbearably disgusting.
Once she left, I thought back to the well. The sanitizer and the accident didn’t prove anything, but I can’t even leave the house without checking the lock three times. I’ll check the well one more time. That would make three. Three is a good number. It was only that thought that helped me get to sleep that night, long after the sink had been cleaned and sanitized again. It was no longer disgusting.
—
I’m not sure where to get the blood I needed. I didn’t think this far ahead. I stood at the park for a while, but the graffiti seemed to taunt me, knowing that if this thing is for real, then there’s plenty of blood on my hands. Badass #1 had added on to it so it now read;
“More blood please.”
I’d love to say no and forget this, but my conscience won’t let me. More importantly, my OCD won’t let me. Three is a good number.
I didn’t realize I was chewing on the right side of my cheek until I tasted blood. I was excited until the pain registered. I had to start chewing on the left of my cheek to keep things even, then I needed to find something to catch the blood in. Spitting in the well didn’t seem all that appealing, but I didn’t have any other options. I spat.
Most of it got in the well, but as I feared a good bit of it dripped down my chin, and I was running out of tissues. I had some and wiped my face. I then used some sanitizer on my chin. I would clean it more when I got home, but we had more pressing matters. I needed to make a wish. Was there a time limit? That wasn’t the test. The test was whether it worked or not, and yet I kept acting as though I knew it worked for a fact. What should I wish for? What do normal people wish for? I panicked.
That’s when I saw him. Obviously homeless, and obviously unsanitary, an elderly man was watching me from behind a tree. Disgusting. He started to approach me, leaving the safety of his unsanitary tree. He’s probably going to ask me for money or food, as if I have much more than him. I closed my eyes and wished he’d stop. Dear God, don’t let it touch me.
It sounded like someone letting the air out of a balloon. I opened my eyes, and the man had stopped five feet away from me with one arm outstretched, ready to touch me. Then he made the noise again. Then he fell over. Dead.
I did it again. I stared in disbelief, shook myself out of it, and I went home.
—
I couldn’t sleep. I stopped going to work. It wasn’t guilt that stopped me from going about my usual routine, but I don’t know what it was. I sanitized things until I couldn’t afford the sanitizer. I didn’t eat much, but when I did it was always three of something. Always three.
Nothing on the news about the bum in the park. Welcome to the suburban life, one badass, or Badass #2 to be specific, dies and the world cries over the loss of youth. Youth that throws hand sanitizer at pedestrians. Homeless people, though? Don’t care. Back to Kim Kardashian.
“Are you ever going to get off of your ass? You’re useless. I can’t believe you broke your fucking OCD just to ruin your work schedule. That was the only damn thing your OCD was good for.” That was last night. I’ve been out of it for a month. She was getting angrier as time went by, and I don’t know why she didn’t kick me out. Maybe she still had hope for me, or other feelings for me. I can’t tell. I wasn’t feeling anything any more.
Those words echoed as I tried to sleep. I was sleeping in the bed again. She’s quite confusing at times. Needs to be more structured and organized. “That was the only damn thing your OCD was good for.”
My OCD. The badass and the bum.
Three is a good number. A very good number.
I suddenly leaned over and shook her awake. I told her to get ready for a walk. She was confused. That was okay.
We walked to the park. She asked if I was going to tell her why I’ve been acting so weird. I said maybe. I don’t know why she’s stayed with me for so long. I really don’t.
Badass #1 was on a roll. The graffiti now said “Just a little more blood please.” I hope his mom doesn’t know what he does, and that she thinks he’s an outstanding citizen. I hope Badass #1 loves his mother, even if he doesn’t admit it.
I stood next to the well, and she stood next to me. We used to be in love, even with my problems. We used to stand really close like this in the middle of the night every night. There were a lot of things we used to do. She tried to break the silence and suggested we make a wish.
“I wish that you’ll forgive me for this,” I said.
Just a little more blood please.
Oh, I gave it plenty.
I don’t know if my wish came true or not, but I do know that I’m better now. I sleep. I work. I got a nice job. I don’t worry about money now. I still keep things in threes. I still walk pass the well at times. Someone cleaned the old graffiti and replaced it with “Thank you.” I really don’t think it was Badass #1. I don’t think there was ever a Badass #1. There was a Badass #2, though. And a bum. And then there was her. And I do know that three is a good number. It is a very good number.
—
Credits to: KMilliron
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