Part one, the knife

Part one, The knife

I had been dreading it all day, but it was time to go home. I pulled up to the driveway and turned off the car. I closed my eyes and sat on my hands until my fingers went numb. The dog hadn't heard me yet; I could just turn around and leave, drive until I ran out of road or money. I could start my life over somewhere else, and make the same mistakes, probably.

I got out of the car and took my bag out of the back seat. The dog started barking after hearing the car door slam shut, alerting Zev that I'd come home. I walked to the front door as I had done every day for the past twelve years. The air felt heavy, like molasses, and the door grew giant. I don't remember going through it.

I stood on the kitchen counter, holding my bag in my arms. Zev's foot steps thumped up the stairs. He said, sarcastically, "Welcome home!". I didn't turn around. He went upstairs and closed the door. I collapsed.

My head spun as I curled in a corner of the kitchen floor and cried. My hands struggled to muffle my sobs, though I secretly wanted Zev to hear me. Hear me and see that I wasn't acting maliciously. Know that I was suffering, that I was dying. 

I bawled louder and louder and louder and snot started coming out of my nose and mouth. The dog and cat approached me, staring. The article I had read earlier drifted into mind: "How to die a painless death". 

One suggestion was to swiftly stick a knife in your own heart. I liked that, it sounded poetic. I imagined people would say, "Did you hear that Oli died?", "Oh my God, how?", "He killed himself! stabbed himself in the heart". It felt good.

My hand fumbled over my head until it grabbed the knife from the holder on the wall. I remembered buying this knife. I traded in a card full of stickers I had been collecting from the supermarket. For every ten dollars I spent, I got a sticker. I saved my stickers for this knife. My friends gave me their stickers whenever they shopped at the same store. I loved my knife. As I pressed the tip into my chest I could hear my mother's voice "This is a very good knife". 

It didn't take much pressure before it started to hurt. Questions started popping into my head. How much harder am I gonna push? Could I really reach my heart? Don't I have bone and muscle protecting my vital organs? Could I even cut the skin? 

I tried another part of my chest, this time pushing harder. I knew I couldn't do it. I'd tried this kind of thing before. Who was I putting on this show for? I gave up the charade and started crying again. I screamed, but no sound came out. Air left my lungs and I couldn't breathe in any more. 

I remembered the suicidal thoughts I entertained as a child. Suicide has always lingered in the back of my mind. It has been my true life long companion, dormant during the good times and whispering in my ear during the bad. Here I was again, a lifetime later, thinking of the sad child I once was, trying to end it all over a broken heart. 

My fingers relaxed and the knife slipped out of my hands. Zev shouldn't see me holding it. He would most certainly think I was just trying to get his attention, make him feel guilty, put on a show. I am a drama queen. And he was probably right. My own intentions were frustratingly unknown to me.

I place the knife on the counter. Maybe it would catch Zev's eye and he would think "Was that knife there when I went upstairs?". Maybe he wouldn't notice at all. I cried and became a smaller ball on the kitchen floor. I cried, stopped crying and then cried some more. 

During my lucid moments I thought about getting up. I wanted to clean myself up before Zev came back downstairs. I could hear him drying his hair. I tried to stand, but I couldn't. The pain was unbearable. I heard his footsteps approaching and I shut my eyes tighter. "I'm sorry you're in pain," he said dryly. " I have to go, good-bye." I heard his car keys jingle, and then the door shut behind him. It's over, he's gone. He's so sick of me. 

I couldn't open my eyes for another five minutes. I fumbled around the countertop until I found the knife again. I pressed the edge on my wrists but could not will myself to make the cut. I screamed, this time the sound came out. It sounded like a widow wailing at a funeral. I threw the knife on the floor and thought, Why?

Time stood still for a while. Tears dried on my face as I stared into the air before me. Slowly I swung my legs around, sat on my heels and pressed my forehead to the ground. The tile floor felt cool on my skin. I thought about child's pose, the Muslim prayer and the insane in a padded room. I picked up the knife again, stood up and pressed it quietly against my chest. Again I could not do it. I put the knife down and went to the garage looking for rope.