Find You in the Dark

frantically.
    “Clay!!! Open this door now!” The answering reply was the sound of more destruction on the other side of the door. I heard Clay yell and the sound of breaking glass. The horrible noises of Clay's tirade seemed to last forever. I kept banging on the door with my hands until they were bruised and raw. And then it all stopped and everything went eerily quiet. “Clay!” I screamed into the thick wood that separated us. But I heard nothing. Then I felt the fear.
    I ran down the sidewalk and into the lobby. I forced myself to slow down and act nonchalant. The same kid that had checked Clay and I in was manning the desk. “Hey. I locked myself out of my room. Can I get a spare key card?” The pimply faced guy barely looked at me. “Room number?” He asked. “Room 43.” I told him. He lazily punched some stuff into the computer.
    I stood there for 15 minutes as the guy moved through the required motions with the speed of a snail. I tried to control the urge to reach across the counter and do it myself. Jesus! How long does it take to get a new room key? My skin was crawling with the urge to get back to Clay. “Here. You need another one, it'll cost ya $25.” The guy said, already dismissing me as he turned back to the small, fuzzy-screened TV behind him.
    I grabbed the key card and took off back towards our room. It had already taken too long to get back. I quickly put the key in the door and pushed. I had to shove with all my strength because something was blocking the other side of the door.
    After four or five good shoves, I got through the door and I gasped in horror. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Clay had pulled over the television set and the screen had broken all over the floor. He had pushed the mattress off the bed and ripped and shredded almost all of our clothing.
    The item that had been blocking the door was the ancient-looking arm chair. Clay had broken one of the wooden legs and it laid on its side. How could one person do so much damage? “Clay?” I called out, praying for an answer. But, of course there was none.
    The bathroom door was closed but I could see light filtering out from the cracks. My stomach felt heavy with dread. The icy fingers of fear spread through my entire body. I turned the handle of the bathroom door, slowly opening it. And then I screamed.
    Clay had shattered the mirror and glass lay all over the sink and floor. But what made me scream was the sight of Clay curled on his side in a fetal position on the grubby tile floor. A slowly expanding pool of blood blossoming out around his prostrate body.
    I hurried to his side, slipping in his blood and falling hard to my knees. I rolled him onto his back. His eyes were open but glassy and unfocused. His skin was ashen and I had to swallow the vomit rising up in my throat as I took in the sight of his wrists.
    He had used glass from the shattered mirror and slashed deep into the skin below his palm in a vertical line, almost all the way up to his elbow. Blood flowed from the injuries at a rate that terrified me.
    “No, Clay! No, no, no!” I wept as I ripped the towels from the rack on the wall and wrapped his arms. My tears mingling with his blood on the floor. I pulled Clay's cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher picked up and asked me to state my emergency. “Please! My boyfriend has tried to kill himself! We're at the Motel 6 outside of Glass Lake, near the highway. Room 43.” I gasped out as I tried to staunch the blood that just would not stop flowing out of him.
    “Ma'am. How did he try to kill himself?” The lady on the other end was to the point, yet calm. I picked up the jagged piece of glass from the bathroom floor. It was coated in Clay's blood. “He slit his wrists. With a piece of glass.” The dispatcher began to reel off advice on how to slow down the blood loss. To put pressure on the wounds and to try and keep him alert and lucid by talking to him. She assured me the medics were on their way.
    “Clay! Please. Talk to me.” His eyes slowly moved to my face, but I wasn't sure he even recognized me. Their expression was dull and practically lifeless. I pressed my hands over his injured wrists, trying to ignore the fact that the towels were slowly soaking in his blood. I wrapped his arms with another towel.
    “Don't you dare leave me, Clayton Reed! Not after everything we've been through! How could you do this to me?” I sobbed as I cradled his body to my chest. My