Complementary Colours by Mel Wright

The day is hot, and humid.
I sit at my laptop, typing, feeling the sweat gathering at the base of my neck beneath my loose ponytail, trying to ignore the throbbing headache seems to be deep-seated in the base of my skull.
When I look out my window, I can see the bright new leaves that are growing on the weeping ash tree that stands in the centre of my lawn, can see that the grass almost needs to be mown again.
I sit and gaze for sometime, welcoming the cool breeze blowing through my old slat windows, making the bright blue curtains, left over from when this was my brother’s room, billow slightly.
The breeze stops, and my headache steadily grows worse, making my brain feel like it has been put through a high-speed blender.
Sick of being cramped inside, I get up, and open my French doors, wandering out onto the cool green grass which feels rich and thick, like carpet beneath my bare feet.
Up in the tree a bird sings, and the usually beautiful noise only irritates me.
My grey eyes glance quickly at my cracked watch face; the display reads 12:31 – another six hours until anyone comes home.
The sun beats down on me, and I can feel thin trails of sweat tickling as they trickle over my collar bone, between my breasts and down the backs of my legs, and I wipe them away in annoyance.
I move into the shade of the tree, sitting down on the cool grass, and gradually my irritation fades.
I reach out with my left hand to brush a leaf away from my face, and it is only then that I see how noticeable the heat has made the scars that run down my wrists.
The fine lines appear crimson against my pale skin, a fine beading of sweat making them almost glitter.
Angry at myself again, I walk back inside, collapsing into my computer chair once more.
The scalpel that lies beside my computer stares up at me invitingly, but I grit my teeth, and look away, avoiding its magnetising look.
My fingers tap at the computer keys rapidly, but even that familiar sound only serves to vex me further, and nothing seems right anymore.
My favourite clothes, and old shirt and faded pair of jeans feel uncomfortable, and stray wisps of hair brush my neck irritatingly.
My hand finds the scalpel of it’s own accord, and I wander back outside to sit beneath the tree.
The razor-sharp blade slices easily into my wrist, parting skin and tissue, and the bitter pain sooths my mind.
Even in the shade it is not hard to see where my veins run, only a few millimetres beneath the surface of my skin, and the blade dances along them, pirouetting through my flesh.
Crimson rivers poor across the landscape of my skin, falling in a steady stream to the ground.
My left hand shakes only slightly as I transfer the scalpel to it, but is sprints just as easily along my right wrist, if possible, cutting even deeper than before.
I drop the scalpel; it lands, blade down in the soft earth, and I sigh.
Scarlet pools begin to form on the grass before sinking into the ground, and all I can think about is the fact that it is tasteful – because red and green are complementary colours, after all.