Part III
You
always think that it will never happen to you. You always think that only
"unstable" people start thinking this way. You always tell yourself
that, until one day-it is you. You're the one who may be considered
"unstable." You realize it, and you think, "how? How did I come
to be this way?"
I can't tell when this happened. I hope that no one else can see what's become
of my scarred heart. I wish to whatever Powers exist that no one realizes what
thoughts invade my mind in the weakest moments of time.
The thoughts-they make my mind spin, they attack my heart when I finally
believe that things may be better. I wake every morning believing that today
may be better. Maybe. But I wake, and all it takes is an instant after I walk
down the hall and see a picture hanging on the wall, or smell the scent of
fresh coffee drifting up from the kitchen, and my heart falls through the floor
again.
How can anyone go on like this? It seems that when my sister took her last
breath, that that was when I did, too. I died, and it feels as if there is
nothing in this world that could ever bring me back. My heart beats no more,
but on the physical plain, it pounds, roaring in my ears. I cannot stand the
sound of my own heartbeat. It deafens me, slowly driving me insane. I feel it
moving in every part of me, and it burns. It burns, knowing that blood is
pumping through my veins, and, at the same time, holding onto the knowledge
that my beloved sister will never feel her heart beat again.
How do others manage to do this? Every day you'll hear about someone dying
tragically. How do their families manage to go on? I know that it couldn't be
easy, that it will never be easy, but if there could at least be some kind of
explanation... if there was something. We've been searching for what seems like
an eternity; and still, there is nothing. Of course, we've read the books, the
ones that are supposed to help you keep coping with daily life, but I don't
think that they're doing anything for me. Then again, it really doesn't matter.
I'm walking through life blindfolded now. Words that will protect me have
become automatic. I don't know how many times a day I say, "I'm
fine," "I'm alright," or something along those lines. I'll say
anything to reassure people that everything is under control. It really does
feel like I'm carrying around a secret that could destroy me. For a while, I
didn't know why I felt this way. I had nothing to hide. But now, I know I have
a secret. I don't want to live. And, for some reason, I feel better knowing
that no one else knows; knowing that as long as I'm the only one that knows
that I think the things I think, I'm safe.
The things I think are trance-like now. In fact, I don't even think them
anymore. They're just there, inside of my head. They simply exist there. Like
the knife. The sharp, shiny knife that was left sitting on the kitchen island. It
was simply there; it just existed. And because of its existence, the thought
existed, too. It never even formed words in my mind; it was just there. I
picked it up. It weighed down in my hand. It looked so sharp. I touched the
blade with my fingertips. It was cold. Death is cold. I ran the side of the
blade over the back of my hand. It was smooth, too. It would be easy... I took
the blade to my wrist, laying the flat of it against my light green vein. It
would be so easy...
I dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the kitchen floor. Why had I done
that? It took a moment for it to register in my mind why I had. The front door
had slammed, and I had dropped the knife. I swallowed the lump in my throat and
crouched to pick up the knife. No. I stood, and looked down at the steely
knife, watching the morning light glint off the blade. Leave it.
Why had I done that? Why had I done any of it? Death. The knife was death. That
had to be it. It had to be the reason why I had picked it up, put it to my
skin... It was death. If not, it was just like it. Death. It was sharp, cold,
and smooth... It was exactly like death. "Death cuts like a knife."
Death is the knife...