The Gray “Community of Blood”

“I am just lonely, that's all. It is all part of the process. They told me it was part of the work and I chose to believe them at their word. I have completed each step to the letter, only varying in those places where the instructions allowed, though it appears that intent is more important than method.

I've never been very good at going off the beaten path, at finding a way outside of the common schools of knowledge. I have always enjoyed the security of a well trod road, the feeling of accomplishment that can come from following everything to the letter of the law and having it turn out as expected. But what I am being asked to accomplish isn't something that can be done in a one to one ratio. Everyone is different, and everyone has different needs and desires they are seeking to exploit.

Cleaning up the blood is something I have managed to get good at over the last few months. It is a strange skill to have, and it is certainly not something I could put onto a resume. Not that there is any need for resumes anymore, as I was promised something beyond the normal confines of my body and my life.

I have never had to spend very much listening to myself, listening to my soul and how it breathes. That sort of learned behavior is something that my parents were always really good at, but didn't pass down to me. I have always felt a person apart from myself, and to get in touch with the interior takes real effort for me.

They say it makes me an ideal person, the fact that I am so disconnected and separated. I had assumed that they would only want those who seem to have a solid grasp of themselves, to speed along the process, but I think there is good reason why they want me and not my parents. I am not dumb, and I don't trust easy, so it isn't strange that I was able to see their purpose in choosing me.

I have difficulty reaching into myself, and that means that how I see the interior can be molded by what is on the outside. For those more interior minded people, a little blood on the floor or on their skin isn't going to have a significant impact on their sense of self. It might make them uncomfortable, but it isn't going to hurt them.

The exterior doesn't affect the interior as much, but for me what I see on the outside speaks to the inside.

It is how I have managed to get connected, the few times I have. It is how I met them in the first place, though people apparently meet them all sorts of ways.

I was taught by a guidance counselor to look at myself in the mirror, to talk at myself so that I no longer have to feel so distant. I remember reading somewhere, and I suspect this is where my guidance counselor got it, that staring into the eyes of someone for minutes on end can be a cathartic experience that can deepen the bonds even between two strangers. So I started talking to myself in the mirror, and sometimes I would just sit in front of the mirror and just stare at me.

I'd look into my eyes.

And the thing was, it started to work! I started to see those things about me that people seemed to notice, and started being able to take a look into what was inside, just by sitting there and watching myself for sometimes a half hour or more.

It was hard at first of course, as one would expect it to be. It is easy to get distracted or bored, but I found that I was able to do it more and more the more and more I spent time focusing on my form. I noticed details in my eyes and skin, the angles of my body and the ways my clothes fit or my fingers looked depending on the heat.

It is why they told me to use the blood. It is a good way to shake up the core for someone like me, and though it took time to get used to I have found myself to become partial to the way I look in red. My eyes blue color stand out against all the scarlet, and my lips look full and rich instead of dull and pink like they usually are.

It was weeks after I had started looking and talking to myself that they first began to make themselves known. At first, it was just small things; things I would only find odd at first but could in time become accustomed to. My eyes would take on a odd color, or my skin would be paler or tanner than normal. There were always things I could excuse.

They were things I could find explanations for in my mind.

By the time they chose to speak, I had come accept all sorts of peculiarities, from obsidian skin to missing limbs.

It started off as a whisper, lurking a little off to the side, but I soon realized that the sound wasn't coming from the side. When I was younger, one of the things my parents tried to get me into were ventriloquist dummies. They thought it would draw me out.

I became pretty good at throwing my voice, but I could never really connect with the dolls.

I say this, because I soon realized that if I paid close enough attention to the whispering and my face, I could notice the signs of movement, the sort of thing that you train yourself to be good at hiding through distractions and movements, but struggle to hide when you are staring at the act in the face.

The whispering was coming from me, and I soon realized that the whispering was in my voice, loud and clear. What was more, the voice sounded confident and bold, so different from me.

So when I began to recognize the person in the mirror as both me and someone else, and when the divide between myself and them had been broken down in increments, I was more than ready to receive their gospel.

I don't think I am crazy, I just think that it might seem odd to an outsider. But just know that though I am lonely and really wish I could find someone alive in this place, I am not losing it or even really afraid. They promise me that this will all pay off in the end, that all of the work I do here will bring me closer to who I really am inside.

All I need is more blood. Just a few more.

They tell me not to worry, that those things caught in the mist are not real. The blood feels real, and it is, but they are not.

They are just shells, just carriers for what I need.

Just a little more blood.

I look beautiful, cast in blood.

My eyes, are such a wonderful color of red.

Everything is scarlet.

The outside and inside match at last, and all I see is blood.”

It is going to rain again/finally. It has been dry the last few days, and that seems to have given me the time I have needed to try and sort myself out.

Now I can feel the rain closing in again in a way I haven't been able to for some time now. The last week feels like a blur, but now I can smell the worms and the rainwater, the filtering of past memories coming back to me in full force. I taste the gin of the rainwater cocktail, and taste the coffee and feel the damp ground underfoot.

It is one last gift from my friend, after all of this pain. I've been able to come out of this with a desire to be closer to the people that matter to me. I made my dad dinner, and I called Betty and Danny to tell them that I loved them.

I love you too, in our strange, distanced sort of way. Maybe that is too intense, but your letter the other week proved to be just what I needed to get through this and find the rain on the other side.

Hope to hear from you soon.