DEEPEST CUTS MATTHEW BARTLES | Poetry What I remember most that day is the fly buzzing past his elephant statues on their stand, all innocent bystanders. A mirror sat on the wall, watching the gruesome scene of two wrists in blood from dark red veins opening. In the back corner I see my mom throwing open all of the bathroom drawers as she flies from one end of the apartment to the other, covered in the blood of her eldest son. As she moves past the stand with the elephants I am idle, trembling at what I’ve seen this night. My face a statue, my eyes a mirror. His wrists mirror one another, both opened because he couldn’t be seen not able to get “it” up, he wants to fly from this place, embarrassed and confused, he can’t stand to know that he can’t even control the flow of his own blood. It’s not as though he was bleeding out on the carpet, but it was still enough so that the mere movement of the arm would send it gushing out into the open air. Time seemed to fly by so slowly that I can remember everything I saw. Finally, after taking the most scenic route to the left hand bathroom drawer, my mother found something to stop the blood from flowing down his arms and she flew to his side. Desperately she wrapped the gauze, first around the left wrist and then mirrored it on the right. Now closed up, my brother opened his tear-ridden eyes and laid on the couch, he could no longer stand. The elephants continued to look on from the stand on the left wall of the room as he spoke of things we had never known or seen of his life. He told of so many open bottles of pills and how he had heard voices tell him to spill his own blood and how disgusted he was to look into the mirror and see a man looking back at him who wasn’t strong enough to fly. The lonely fly ceased to buzz around the room and now it stood next to the elephant statues, watching the scene come to a close through the mirror covered in my brother’s blood and unable to fly back out into the open air.