Tangible Pain

The door buzzer sounded again for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Carrie grunted and rolled over, and buried her face in the lumpy couch’s cushion. She could hear the muffled sound of her name being called out from somewhere outside her apartment but she knew that they’d give up and leave soon enough. It was a Sunday afternoon and they’d be hard pressed to find someone to let them into the apartment building if she didn’t buzz them in. Sure enough, the yelling subsided and she heard car doors slam shut and a car ignition start.

Carrie turned over and reached down for the clicker that had fallen onto the rug. It was a little after 3pm on a warm summer day, but there was no way  for her to tell what it was like outside, as the inside of her one-bedroom apartment had only diffused light coming in through the closed drapes. The living room where she lay looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Across the room, hanging on the cream textured wall, hung a series of framed photographs in matte black frames, each of which exuded happiness from the people captured in them. On the wall, just to the right of the frames, was a dark brown stain of a liquid that dripped down to the beige carpet where the broken pieces of a coffee mug lay scattered. The beautiful ebony coffee tabletop in front of the couch was covered in dirty coffee mugs, empty cigarette packets and an ashtray so full of cigarette butts sticking out of it that it resembled a balled up hedgehog. There were sheets of crumpled paper with angry scribbling strewn all over and around the coffee table. From the kitchen wafted a nauseating scent of food remains that had been decaying for weeks.

Carrie pointed the clicker at the TV and settled on a crime-scene investigation programme. She picked up the cigarette pack which lay beside the couch and pulled out a cigarette. Without sitting up, she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, shutting her eyes as she did. As the clouds of smoke gently wafted up and filled the room, Carrie grudgingly pulled herself off the couch and picked up the foul-smelling ashtray that lay on the coffee table. As she dragged herself to the kitchen to empty the ashtray, she caught sight of the ironing board that stood in the hallway. She stopped and leaned against the wall, staring at the pearly-white clothes iron that sat atop the ironing board, as she slowly took another long drag of her cigarette.

Slowly and determinately, Carrie walked over to the ironing board and set the ashtray down on it, all the while fixated on the iron. She wrapped her fingers around the iron handle and with one deft movement of her thumb, flicked the switch. She then adjusted the dial underneath the handle to the maximum and took another drag of her cigarette. The drooping cylinder of ash that had built up at the end of the cigarette fell onto the carpet but Carrie didn’t flinch. Instead she crouched beside the ironing board, with her elbows leaning on top of it, and stared at the red light on the iron beside the switch, her eyes glazed over.

About thirty seconds later, the light suddenly went off. Carrie stood up and slowly lifted the iron off its rack with her right hand and turned it over so that she was looking at the underside of the iron. She felt on her face, the intense heat emanating from the shiny metal. She raised her other hand to waist-level, her left palm facing downwards, burning cigarette still between her fingers. With one deliberate move, she swiftly thrust the iron onto her left forearm and yelled as the hot metal seared right through her flesh.

Carrie dropped the iron onto its rack and gripped the underside of her left arm. There was a wide gash on her forearm where the skin had parted to reveal a layer of burnt flesh. Trembling, Carrie picked up the cigarette which had fallen onto the ironing board and stuck it amongst all the other cigarette butts in the ashtray. She walked back to the couch and sank into it, still holding her arm. As she rocked herself back and forth on the couch, she felt the pain in her arm escalate. She did not cry. The pain gave her something definite to think about. It was tangible. Emotions were not. She pulled out another cigarette and lit it as she inhaled deeply. She leaned back on the couch feeling much calmer and stretched out her left arm, examining her wound again, thinking to herself how much more impressive it looked in comparison to the dozens of partially healed abscesses that surrounded it. She looked down the hallway where she could just about make out the iron, precisely as its little red light came back on...