Confessions of a Hemophobic

I killed a man once. It felt good after a while of performing this act. A certain sense of relief, a certain kind of strange unknown satisfaction grasped me by my throat. 

I used to be scared of blood. The sight of even a small amount would make me faint. There are very few things in the world that I hate, fear appears to rank topmost in that list. The world otherwise is very beautiful for me, nature is fascinating and I keep wondering at this perfect geometry of existence. I never disliked any particular person, I am very understanding by nature. I respect perspectives and I never held a grudge on any human being or any element. Never have I had any complains about life. A contented, calm state of mind is something I usually possessed, most of the time. However, such times did not last longer. A sense of fear would snatch away this identity of mine and throw me to a world where I would not recognise myself. 

Hemophobia wasn’t the only disturbing factor in my life, but yes certainly the nastiest one and the most extreme one. I spent an entire day thinking of ways to deal with this. With every single day, my hatred towards this fear kept accelerating at rates faster than I could comprehend. I would often start hallucinating blood and consequently fainting, where in reality there was none. I remember this one instance, where I had finally received an interview call after six months of job search. The call was this sudden blessing, at a time when I was under severe financial crisis. Burdened with debts, this one interview could save me for survival. On my way to the interview centre, I saw a dead rat lying at the side of the road. Some careless driver had smashed it with the strength of his vehicle’s wheels. The sight of blood spilled wouldn’t leave my mind. However, it was only human blood  that could make me faint. So, good thing, the fainting part could be avoided but surely I had gone through a nervous breakdown. Took me more than 5 mins to recall my name. 

With all my will power, I convinced myself that I cannot afford to mess up this opportunity. I needed to stay strong, stay focused on priorities. I knew I wasn’t strong mentally, yet I made every effort to fake it and feel it. It was more like gulping down a bitter medicine and thinking how helpful the consequences can be. The time had arrived. I reached the mentioned location and was allotted a waiting room. My token read number three, so all I had to do is wait for a few minutes and let the two applicants before me finish off with their interviews. Each interview took almost 15-20 mins. I consistently spoke to myself about maintaining stability. Applicant with token number two was called and I knew, “just some more time and this will be done”. Just then, the caretaker of the place arrived with some snacks with ketchup sauce. The red colour suddenly distracted my mind and I couldn’t stop myself from having visions of the dead rat. Repeated visions of the blood spilled. The situation got aggravated mostly because of the added stress of the circumstance itself. My head started spinning and I started hallucinating human blood. Blood everywhere, on chairs, tables and even on the faces and hands of my fellow applicants. My vision was blurring out, when token number three was suddenly called. The announcement helped as I was drawn back to my senses during this inner struggle. I was in the midst of this battlefield inside me. War has some severe costs that are usually overlooked. In my case, it was the blood, which meant more than any number of deaths. 

I walked into the interview room with a pretentious confident look while I was almost going through a near-death experience inside me. I am not sure if this is what is defined as strength. As I took my seat, I looked straight into the eye of the interviewer. Eye-contacts are a show of confidence and I willed to maintain this act. However, the worse took dominance again as I started imagining blood dripping down from the corner of his eyes. My vision started blurring out. I could see his lips move, inquisitive and interrogative expressions projecting themselves on me. I am answerable. Expectations take their tyranny and blood keeps dripping down. Scarlet coloured, thick heavy droplets take their shape. Just then, I lose my senses once more. I am done for life. I am blank. I am dead again. There is darkness and I don’t remember anything more. 

I messed it up. My fear did. My hatred grew. I had to do something about it. I can’t go on like this. Last time, I went to a psychologist, it did not help. Maybe an associative fear, but whatever it is, it is there and it is ruining my life. I was told once by a friend, “when you cannot get rid of something that you don’t like, you have to start getting used to living with it”. Now, dialogues sound beautiful and make a lot of sense but in reality I had to no clue how to implement this “living with hemophobia”. Neither, did I want to die. My life could be absolutely amazing if not for these sudden disturbances, so why should I take my life for it? I will not surrender to fear. “Make the fear a part of you”, my inner voice told me. I could not sleep that night. Determined to find ways of living with it, I decided to participate in some critical thinking exercise. There is a problem, I cannot eliminate it, I have to live with it without letting it dominate me. How? 

I imagined blood on my own hands - a part of me. Stained hands are stained forever, yet the stain is not on the hand but in the mind. More I imagined, more I could express this hatred I felt for the fear itself. I was angry that night. With a raging heart, I had no wish to show mercy to my fear. 

I lived in an old-rented flat. There were only two flats in this building that were occupied. My neighbour was this family of four members. The man was a kind-hearted, simple, hardworking labourer. He worked in the factory that manufactured bricks. He has been working in this same profession for more than 25 years now. A dedicated husband and a loving father, it was almost impossible for one to find a spot of sin in his soul. With no desires of his own, he lived his life for his family, doing whatever he could to fulfil their wishes and provide a good education for his children. I have known this man for a year now and I have hardly met another soul as innocent as his. Every festival, he would bring me sweets with a grand smile on his face. Such beautiful people, such kindness and such a beautiful world. It was almost an overwhelming experience to live amidst these fellow humans. 

A sudden thought crossed my mind, shivered my veins and burned my heart. I was growing thirsty for this man’s blood. His good qualities made him a perfect victim for staining my hand, heart and soul. No other reasons, except for the purpose of ‘living with this phobia’ could have contributed to the act I was imagining. Neither personal grievances nor any other judgement supported the thought. All such factors made this man a perfect target. I was getting prepared finally to deal with my own fear, aiming a life of pure bliss. Butchering of his body is only a medium for this voyage I was about to take. Daunting blood would make no difference to me then and I can laugh away at my ignorance to any amount of spilled blood. 

I observed the whereabouts of my neighbour very carefully for a week. Every weekday, he returns back home around 8pm. His work place is an hour away and he walks back to save on his expenses. Small lanes and isolated streets are involved during his journey back. I had to choose a particular day for this final act - Thursday, I decided. The day before, I stole a knife from the butcher’s store. I remember I could just get in the profession of butchering to get used to blood but that is not what I wanted - I have known my fear for years now. Animal blood was not the way out, human blood is a requirement and a threshold condition. Wednesday night, I stared at the knife the whole night. I tried imagining blood but could not. The fear was not in my control exactly, I could not make hallucinations happen. 

It was around 6pm in the evening when I made my way to a small lane, through which my neighbour would pass through. With the butcher’s knife in my bag and foreign thoughts in my mind, I was unable to plan the strike. Relying on the moment to come, enforcing faith in my hatred and recalling memories of all that I have lost because of this fear, I made every effort to stay calm and focused. Around 7.15pm, I heard footsteps approaching. This is a very old lane, few occupants live a mile away. Rats and rodents, flies and mosquitoes are frequent visitors. Perfect location for the act, perfect for myself to live every moment of the act itself. I peeped from behind the wall and noticed my neighbour walking through this lane. I chose a safe place to get behind him and finally plunged on his back with the knife. Strike number one, number two, number three…and I lost count. I was drowning in his blood. So much blood, my vision started blurring when I took up all my courage and cut open his heart. With my head spinning, I started sweating and felt a sudden thirst. I was in the midst of blood now, in the whirlpool of my fear and here I was a warrior fighting with it. I did not let it take control. Started chewing his heart, sipping his blood and kept staining my own body with all of his  blood."Destroy the source, if you want to destroy it completely", I thought. The more my senses were giving me away, stronger were my strikes, till I shredded him into tiny pieces. All blood had been spilled out and I was in them, living with them. Existence of that moment held its truth and the blood of this truth had been consumed by me. I was relishing the act with every pinch of hatred and vengeance I had left in me. I had done it. I did not faint. I conquered my fear. I won the battle. 

I wanted the stain to stay for a while. So, I took up my long black robe and covered myself to make the blood unnoticeable. I went back home with a feeling of relief, humming to myself the tune of 'La Follia'. It felt good, victory feels good. I replayed the act in my mind repeatedly and I enjoyed staring in the eye of the fear, ridiculing it. I did not just kill the man, I murdered my fear. Flashes of all that blood did not make me faint, nor could they make my head spin. They were simply powerless, lying in a corner shivering in their own fear - or perhaps they were timid under the fear of my will. 

I had then started living with this stained mind and heart. A price I had to pay but again everything has a cost, it is only a matter of choice if one wants to bear it. The police tracked me down and next day I find myself in a dark cell. No sight of blood nearby but I am sure the sight of it would not make much difference to me now. The verdict said that I have to serve my years in the asylum till I prove myself sane. I could not comprehend what was so insanely wrong. Every war has a cost, has blood spilled. Thats what my history book told me. Inner or outer, why such discrimination? Spent 10 years in the asylum, started painting during those boring hours. All my paintings were dominant with this one colour- red. I studied various shades of this primary colour and every series of my painting would mean differently only because of the variations of this single colour. I was instructed once to stop using red. The colour was snatched away and I had to manage with only yellow and blue. I wasn’t happy using only these two, so I ended up doing sketches with charcoal pencils but all I could draw was a hand. My obedience and discipline helped me receive a good reputation. Hence, I was set free from the institution after 10 years. It has been 10 years now that I have not seen blood. It was ensured that I don't come across any sight of blood, not even accidentally. Ten years is a long time. Memories start decaying. I was not sure how would I react to blood when I am out. 

A blood test was scheduled before release. A medical procedure undertaken before any release. After ten years, I saw blood and again I fainted. All that I had aimed for was ruined. I was again at the mercy of this fear and I hated it. 

Silently I walk back to my old flat. My neighbours have shifted somewhere else. There are new neighbours now. More occupants in this building. I enter this old home of mine and blankly I go up to the mirror. I stare at myself. I recall all that was committed, the struggles faced to defeat my fear, my moments of victory and then again I have lost. I could not bear the burden of this defeat. 

I am going to kill a man again and drown myself in his blood. This time, it is going to be an everlasting victory. I punch the mirror, take a piece of its sharp pointed glass and stab the man in the mirror. It feels good again. A strange, unknown relief - one of a kind freedom.