Peach Blossom Nails

By Kexin Qiu, aged 17

You and I are in a sterile white room, empty except the two of us. The ceiling is tall, and the room is wide. There is no door. Neither of us cast a shadow and there’s no knowing the source of light.

            You lie there, dressed in plain dark clothes, legs slightly bent, arms lying casually at your sides. Your face younger than it has been for more than two thirds of your life, turned back to the time when beauty was embodied in your being, an age more suitable for mine. But your head is turned towards me oddly, as if you have sprained you neck. Deep red blood slowly pours through your parted lips. Your eyes open wide, as if something amusing is happening. Your feet are bare, showing rounded heels and smooth, warm ankles.

            I kneel to your side and see your nails are loose, their rims circled with dried blood. I lift your left hand and pull on the one on your index finger and it comes out with its root, like a white-pink petal of peach blossom. Clear, bright blood blooms on your hand. Your hand curls a bit and twitches, your mouth makes a slight gurgling sound, but you’re too weak to put in more struggle for your pain or to cry out. I pull out all of them, one by one, creating more rich blossoms. For each one I lick and suck the small, overflowing pool, ever so gently, thinking how these delicate fingers used to hold a pen, strum the strings of a guitar or dance on keyboards, leaving beauty and truth sent from the deep heavens. You release each with twitches that grow weaker, but your eyes are unwilling to shed a tear, and not one of your resonating voices come from your mouth.

            I lie down with you by your side, running one hand through your short, neatly trimmed hair, the other on you hollowed cheek, and kiss, feeling full, white teeth. Your mouth is empty, your tongue cleanly cut off, not leaving a muscle, keeping you from choking. I drink in your blood, savoury, bitter, yet sweeter than any sugar. Your eyes stare into me, but I wager it’s more because you cannot close them or blink.

I hug myself close to your body, soaking us in your red pool. I run my hands over you, your straight neck, your back, your slender waist, your stomach, your even chest. Your heart beating fainter and slower by the minute, but which never seems to stop. Nor does your blood seem to dry. I hold you tightly, pressing my young, soft body to yours, kiss your face and neck, not undressing you or me, and crying without a sound.