The Cut In My Mind

slit wrist

I had descended the stairs. In the dark. In the quiet. I took my steps quietly, deliberately making no sound. On the kitchen counter stood the block, which was the sheath for the many knives my mother has used to make dinner for us. I had learned how to use them that year, slicing onions, carrots, potatoes, anything.

I took the chef’s knife, the long blade scraping across the wood like a lead pencil across a desk. In the moonlight my pale arms glowed, a perfect light to cut by. I ran the blade across my skin, wondering where best to cut.

I could see it. My hand slicing into my flesh, the red hot blood coming to the surface staining the pristine countertop with crimson. I wondered if I would have the strength to not cry out, to not alarm my parents sleeping at the end of the hall.

I could see my mother finding me, dead in the morning. Not knowing why. I was sad to have loved her, but been unable to tell her how sad I was. My father would come in, see my mother and comfort her. He would not be the one to find me. He would not be the one to have the image of finding me dead burned into him.

I put the knife back in the box.

I ascended the stair. I went to sleep.

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