alcoholic Soma Blather: 2-1 Alcoholic Sometimes I forget who I’ve told. The blood is still so vivid in my mind. I can still taste the memory of the sharp iron tang in the air. Still actively hear the noise of coagulating fluids between the tile floor and my shoe, as they squelch in a certain sticky tonal range I don’t have words for. Blood has a certain quality we don’t always remember since most of us rarely see it in such large volumes. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? What it can do for us. What it can let us learn. What it can let us see. What you can do with something as simple as a smartphone is overwhelming. You can use it to meet someone new and fall in love. You can use it to sign paperwork. You can use it to watch your hidden camera from across town as multiple people break into your bedroom and rifle through all your things. You can use it to document the blood and broken furniture sprawling across the common areas in your rental. You can use it to call 911 on a potential murder scene. I stand there, shocked by what has greeted my eyes in the entry hallways, and call her name. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life. Alexa doesn’t answer. I call for the others, but there’s no reply. It’s over all the floor and counters and even on the walls. Squick squick – I’m treading carefully across the living room, the dining room, and carefully sliding open my door. A cat bolts out – not mine – and begins to loudly protest to me his former confinement. There’s blood dripped across my room in sticky little pools but little else amiss. Squick squick. I’m back across the floors. Squick squick. I’m calling her name. Squick. Alexa? Squick. Alexa. Squick squick. Alexa!! Rising in concern, in intensity. Squick squick. I’m down the hall, and the blood is thicker now. Alexa isn’t in her bed. I hear a noise from across the hall. I turn and see something shifting from behind the white sheers that surround the canopy bed. A hand emerges, ghastly and surreal while simultaneously being far far too real, caked in red as if fresh from the gore of some hellish evisceration. The drapes are pulled aside and I see her tangled body is awash in blood, still vivid and red and glistening with ichor that’s also streaked across the sheets. The blood is smeared down the right side of her face and her entire neck. The white sheets are varying stages of tan and brown and pink and red depending how close they are to her. I’m livid and aghast. I argue with her that she was in my room and she denies it. I tell her her blood’s in my room and she denies it. I show her I have it on my camera footage and it fucking clicks. “Oh yeah, but I mean, it wasn’t personal or anything! I just needed a bandaid, you know?” She stumbles through a story about cutting her while making ta cos and needed a bandaid. That’s why she went through my room with some friend of hers. As she talks I realize she’s still drunk or very hungover. I also notice she’s still bleeding. The gash in her palm is stitches worth of flesh cut asunder. It’s a wonder she can move her hand. I leave. I call the landlord. I call the cops. I don’t want her to fucking bleed to death, but if they showed up and shot her well –  I wasn’t in a mood to really care. --- It’s hours later that I’m sitting in my car, still shaking, pouring over possibilities and scenarios and aghast at my own response to it all when I get a call to my phone. I answer, and it’s Alexa. She berates me instantly, “Did you fucking call the cops on me?“ I’m more than happy to say “Oh yeah, but – I mean – it wasn’t personal or anything. I just need a paper trail, you know?” --- Fuck you Alexa. I’d say you’re an absolute cunt, but you had none of the warmth nor depth. I hope you got the help you needed. I hope to god you’re better. But part of me really hopes you’re fucking miserable, too. 240110 what's it to you? who go blather from