The reflection from the light coming gracefully through the window danced across the silver blade. I sat on the old rotten mattress that smells of mold and cigarette smoke, a piece of cloth and springs that I had been desperate enough to call my bed. The walls, wooden and covered in rusty nails and wire, on either side of the window send shade onto the knife, murdering some of the bright yellow luminosity.

As I think about my bedroom, the knife has more and more appeal to me. I can hear it sometimes. Calling me.

I keep the blade in an envelope under my mattress, along with a letter. Sometimes, I take them out and lay them in front of me. Wondering.

I picked up the small sharp piece of metal and it is almost insubstantial, it is so weightless. It feels fragile, lying across my fingers, like it would shatter if I dropped it. I related completely with the blade. The look of a weapon, but really being delicate beyond all reason.

I have already been shattered one too many times. I cannot continue to kill myself inside and out. I can do it right now. With a flick of the wrist.

Suddenly, I am horrified with myself, and I quickly shove the blade back into its envelope, hiding it again. I take the letter, written on a fresh, clean piece of lines paper, and fold it. I put that under my bed along with the knife.

I don't know why I sometimes feel so desperate for death, and then the next minute I am appalled by the thought. Maybe it is insanity, finally knocking on my door. Finally whispering my name, asking me to go and join his other recruits.

I know that I won't do it. I'm not brave enough to impale my own flesh. I am not strong enough to watch my own steaming blood prance down my ocher skin.

Sometimes, I am sure of myself, saying that I'd never hurt my own body in a million years. At other times, I feel like I am trapped and there is only one way out.

For now, I am content.

But I never know when the call of the blade will taunt me and call my name again.