Nathia

Today Nathia took a day off from work. It's Monday. She's been taking quite a few days off work already, for one reason or another. She says that she doesn't feel like going into work because she doesn't feel good. She said it'll be OK, because she really was sick last week, but still went to work. They'll just think that her illness got worst over the weekend. She went back to sleep and woke up at noon.

Nathia looked and felt like a zombie throughout the day. She had bags under her eyes. The area under her eyes were already usually dark so this morning she looked extra sick. Her face was ashen pale. She didn't even bother to brush her hair. She looked like that the rest of the day. Walking around the house yet not really doing anything.

She left the house around 5 today. It looked like it was going to rain but she didn't seem to care. She thought to herself, good, if it rains on her, then she can really be sick. She ended up coming back home, drenched, about half an hour later. She forgot her phone. And while she was making calls in the public phone, she forgot her pink umbrella she bought overseas in the phone booth. It was gone by the time she went back to look for it, which was less than 5 minutes later. She looked upset.

She sat on the sofa and bent over, her hands clutching her wet hair. This doesn't look too good. She felt a sudden rage. She needed to hit something. The anger was like a black hole, sucking everything sane with such aggressive velocity that no thoughts were left. She saw the wall and began punching it. After two or three hits she stopped, bent over in pain, she uttered a little cry. But she continued punching again. This time with more force. Her knuckles began to bleed as her skin split open. Tiny specks of blood splattered on the wall. She stared at them, mesmerized by the angle and beauty of blood, her blood. She smeared the blood on the wall with her fingers. Now her hands were bloody. Her knuckles were oozing blood. She looked at it with satisfaction. They were now purple and bruised. She couldn't even make a fist now because her whole hand was shaking. Every little curl of her fingers sent a shocking pain like pins pricking into the bone. She touched her knuckles tenderly. She winced in pain. Pictures of a dog tending his bloodied wound by licking it came into her head. She smiled at the thought. She probably was like that dog now. She got up and dampened a kitchen towel with a little bit of water. It was time to clean up the bloodied wall, with her other good hand.