Summary

The narrative recounts an individual's persistent and distressing experience with recurring nosebleeds, exacerbated by stress and compounded by dismissive reactions from others.

Abstract

The story "I Can’t Stop Bleeding" is a harrowing account of a person suffering from incessant nosebleeds, which seem to be triggered by environmental factors, allergies, and heightened stress levels. Despite seeking medical advice and attempting home remedies like using a neti pot, the bleeding persists, causing significant distress and fear of death. The protagonist is met with condescension and frustration from those around them, including a doctor who trivializes the issue as purely psychological and a partner who responds with exasperation. The story explores themes of mental and physical health, the struggle for self-control, and the impact of external invalidation on an individual's suffering. The protagonist grapples with self-doubt and the perception of being labeled as irrational and indulgent, leading to a sense of despair and resignation.

Opinions

The protagonist is perceived by others as an irrational hypochondriac, which dismisses their genuine health concerns.
The medical professional suggests that the nosebleeds are a result of stress and a lack of mental fortitude, implying that the condition is psychosomatic.
The partner's reactions convey impatience and a lack of empathy, further alienating the protagonist and adding to their distress.
The protagonist's internal monologue reveals a deep fear of being fundamentally flawed, both mentally and physically.
The story critiques the societal expectation to maintain composure and control over one's mental state, suggesting that this pressure can exacerbate physical symptoms.
There is an underlying sentiment that the protagonist is not being supportive or strong enough, which may contribute to their feelings of inadequacy and the worsening of their condition.

I Can’t Stop Bleeding

A short story

Everything smells like metal. I can’t get my nose to stop bleeding. It’s so dry at this time of year, and my allergies are so bad that every time I blow my nose, it starts bleeding.

I don’t want to tell anyone. I’m certain I’m dying.

The last time I mentioned this, he said, “You are such an irrational hypochondriac. Can you just calm down, please?”

The more I think about that, the more worried I become. Is something wrong with my mind, too? Am I irrational?

The last time I asked my doctor if this was normal, he said, “Clearly you’re worked up about it. Stress creates all kinds of physical symptoms. There’s nothing wrong with you except for your head.” He leaned forward and tapped my forehead. “You just have to be strong and get control of what’s happening in there. Then you’ll stop getting these nosebleeds.”

The stool he was sitting on made an outlandish, long squeak as he rose to his feet.

I try using a neti pot. The water that falls into the sink is pink.

“Would you fucking relax?” he says, spitting out a mouthful of foamy toothpaste. “Jesus!”

I look at myself in the mirror. There’s a stream of blood making its way down my upper lip. After a moment, it falls into the sink. I can hear the little plink it makes but I don’t look down.

It bleeds when I meditate. It bleeds when I journal. It bleeds when I’m talking to my therapist.

“I’m trying so hard to be strong,” I tell him. “To get control over my stress so this will go away.”

“If I may,” he says, handing me a box of tissues. “You tend to be very indulgent with yourself. Maybe it’s time to adjust your perception.”

I hold a tissue to my nose, pinching the bridge with my other hand. “What do you mean?” I ask, though I’m not sure I care in that moment. I know I’m supposed to. Maybe that’s what he means by “indulgent” — that I’m not willing to face the hard truths. But I’m tired. I want to lie down.

“If you think you’re being tough enough with yourself, that might be a signal that you actually aren’t. That might be your complacency talking.”

“Complacency?” I repeat. I feel like I barely registered his words.

“When you tell yourself you’re doing the best you can, try considering that an invitation to redouble your efforts.”

My fingers feel wet as the blood seeps through the tissue.

I wake up feeling like I can’t breathe. Like I’m choking.

The rattling sound I’m making wakes him up. He clicks on the light as I roll over.

There’s blood everywhere. All over my pillow. I can feel it flowing from my nostril and I press my fingers into it, immediately, apologetically.

He springs out of the bed and cries, “Fuck!” He raises his hands in the air, then claps them down on his thighs in indignation.

This is a part of The Dark Gourd’s writing challenge for The Bad Influence: a 500-word horror story.

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