I Want My Scalds Paid for in Blood
“I’m sorry, I did it again…”
The message arrived at six in the morning. Still half-asleep, I stared at the screen until the air backed up in my throat. The word again lodged first—again, again, again. Why does a single syllable sharpen itself each time it returns? I sat on the edge of the bed and read the line three, four, five times. The shorter the sentence, the steeper the angle it can pierce.
What did I do wrong? I couldn’t remember. I’d simply woken from another anxious dream, yet it was already time to drink my ration of remorse. I traced the glass with a fingernail; it squealed as though about to crack. Would a cut bring relief? Or would the pain earn me one more embrace?
My name is Yuri. A nondescript office worker who clocks out, has a single drink, and finds her way home. I met him in a club. Over the thunder of the bass he asked,
“Why is your face so empty?”
A throwaway remark, but it stayed lodged in my skull. I was startled that a blank expression could summon anyone’s attention. A few weeks later he came to my apartment. That night I rambled about an old lover—no real motive, just curious what shape his jealousy might take, hungry for the reveal. He hurled his glass to the floor. Shards scattered like transparent shrapnel; I felt one graze my toe.
I flinched, yet somewhere inside sighed, Ah, finally. While apologizing he seized my hand. His fingertips burned. From that night on, we kept meeting. When anger overtook him, he upended the wardrobe. I followed, sweeping. I collected slivers of glass, darned torn shirts, swept porcelain into trash bags. When a shard sliced me and blood welled, he hugged me harder.
Better this than emotional anesthesia, I told myself.
“To be loved is to consent to being wounded.”
—Psychoanalyst Bernard Brusset
When I was small, Mother scolded me, then insisted, “It’s because I love you.” Thus the sweetness that seeped through her scolding tasted of guilt. I learned that love is not warmth but the thud of bone against bone. I still cannot forget: only when a crimson handprint glowed on my skin did I feel written into existence.
One evening he slammed the refrigerator door; a bottle shattered, fruit juice bleeding between tiles. I lifted the mop slowly; glass gritted underfoot.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Instead of answering, I showed the cut on the back of my hand—a red bead about to burst. He pressed his mouth to it, tongue lapping the metallic taste. Each time I thought, If this is love, I was hooked long ago.
Cold peace or scalding wounds—if I must choose, I take the latter without hesitation. A healthy romance never trembles; within its stillness we find no proof we exist. Only violent feeling convinces me I am real. A wager: blood in exchange for heat. An accounting that manufactures the weapon: Look how much I hurt for you.
Tonight the text arrived again: I’m sorry, I did it again… I typed back:
“It’s okay—I was wrong too.”
So we keep grazing each other raw and call it love. What is a healthy relationship? A bond without pain? Then it isn’t relationship—only coexistence. I still want to be wounded. I want to confirm you upon my blood.
Do you feel it too? Would you pay in tears for one incandescent sentence? Or do you truly crave the hush of peace?
I’m sorry; I still don’t know. I will live my life trembling before the question.