Like a Knife

It was a bit of a ritual for me to spend the night at Craig’s house every Friday night. It had started in seventh grade, when my mother had divorced my father and married Roger. Roger wasn’t a bad guy; he wasn’t a bully like my father was. He just never had time for anyone but my mother. That made her happy, I suppose. They had a child the same year. Anne Stevens. My mother refused to let me near her.

I was sitting on Craig’s bed, listening to him talk to his new girlfriend on the phone. I wished I was at home for the first time in years. Of course, mother and Roger weren’t home, because my mother was currently in labor with their second child. Fuckin’ whore, I thought angrily.

I got up and picked up my backpack from the door. I looked back at Craig. He looked happy as he talked to his girlfriend. I didn’t dare bother him. I opened his bedroom door softly and walked out of his house as quietly as I possibly could. I paused on the road outside of his house. Mother’s or father’s? Definitely father’s. I started the three mile walk to my house, sprinting part of the way from fear.

I finally reached Curtis Morgan’s house on Wild Hollow. I had lived in this house for the first twelve years of my life, and for the last two years of my fourteen I had spent mainly at my mother’s house. Sometimes I would visit the house on Wild Hollow, but it was rare. I hesitated, unsure if I should knock or find the key and get in that way.

I decided to get the key out from under the rock and opened the front door. The house was dark and quiet, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t home. He could be passed out on the couch for all I knew. I set the key back under the rock and shut the door behind me.

The house smelt of smoke, alcohol, and sex. I almost felt sorry for this life my father had fallen into. I missed when the house just smelled of cookies and my mother’s perfume. When was the last time it smelt like that? Five years ago? Ten? I shook my head and crept into the back, headed to my old room.

It was exactly the same as I had left it last time I was here. The room was slightly messy, with the sheets still rumpled but unused. I kicked off my shoes and I placed my backpack down on the floor near my almost empty closet. Then I found a comfortable laying position on the bed.

Absentmindedly, I wondered how long it would take Craig to realize that I had left. Probably soon. It can’t take that long to talk to some girl, right?

I waited for about an hour, but the phone never rang. I sighed deeply, trying to keep the tears from running down my cheeks. My only friend in the whole world, and he doesn’t even care about me. I bet mother isn’t thinking of me either. I hope she dies in that fucking hospital. Serves her right for dumping me at Craig’s every Friday! I hope she gets super pissed that I’m here at father’s house instead. But I doubt she will even care that badly. I bet she’ll just wish I would die and tell me to go to my room and rot there. I laughed maniacally.

The tears dribble out of my lids and down my temples to my hairline. I fucking wish people would care. Fucking wish I was dead.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. My father was a drunken man-whore that wouldn’t miss me. Roger wouldn’t really care, my mother would be happy, and Anne was too young to understand. Craig might would care for a little bit until he saw his girlfriend again. With the new baby on the way, it might would actually benefit to commit suicide. Roger and my mother would have enough money still.

I sat up in bed and wiped tears and snot off my face. “Where’s that damn knife?” I muttered, looking under my bed for the box I kept for moments like this.

I found it finally and opened it up. My father’s old hunting knife sat in the midst of tissues and a couple of small books of depressing poetry. I picked it up and put the box back under the bed.

I sat back down on the bed and pondered upon where to cut myself. I had always thought about cutting myself, but I had never actually tried it. I was always scared I wouldn’t be able to stop, or I would be caught.

No worries this time. If I get caught, so be it. If I die, well… maybe that’s for the best. I took the knife and placed the blade of it against the pale underside of my arm. Everything was blurry from my tears, and I choked on them. My hand was shaking so badly that I scraped my arm a little. I gasped. Suddenly, my vision cleared and I could see what I was doing. I took a deep breath and steadied the blade against my skin. It’s now or never.

I slowly pressed the tip of the blade into my skin, biting down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. Shit, I’m a pussy. At the same pressure, I drew the blade’s tip across my arm. Beads of ruby red appeared at the wound, but didn’t spill over. I sighed and lifted the knife to place it back at the beginning. I pressed harder with the whole blade and dragged it across.

Blood squirted up for a moment as I cut through a vein. I gasped and dropped the knife. I clamped my hand over the wound and smiled bitterly. I hope this teaches them something. I picked up the knife again and, ignoring the blood, continued to drag the tip of the blade deeper and deeper. Wave after wave of scarlet rose in front of my eyes, but I continued to dig into my arm. I tried to keep my hand steady. Nothing worse than a jagged scar.

When I thought I had cut down deep enough, I dropped the knife to the floor. Black edged my vision and bile rose in my throat. I took deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart but only succeeding in making the wound bleed more profusely.

I have to get help… I have to… I forced myself to get off the bed and stand up. I swayed on the spot, my bare foot almost coming down on the knife. I staggered to my door and opened it with some difficulty. I continued down the hall, following my father’s snores.

I got to his bedroom door and collapsed to my knees, unable to go any further. “Dad!” I screamed, banging halfheartedly on the door with my bloody hand. “Help!” Another wave of nausea washed over me and I sank down to a sitting position on the floor. “Help…” I whispered softly, trying to fight the black overtaking my vision.

The door opened and my father’s slim shadow slid into focus. “James?” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. He looked down at me and let out a small chuckle. “What the fuck is your problem, pussy?” His words were slurred and his breath smelled of beer as he leaned down next to me.

“Dad… hospital… please…” I gurgled, falling down onto my side.

He nudged my arm with his foot. “What’d you do, cut yourself?”

I cried out when he kicked my arm again, waiting for an answer. “Yes!” I moaned.

He aimed lower the next time he kicked me, hitting me in the stomach. All of my air whooshed out of my mouth. “Get your stupid fucking ass up, bitch. You’ll be fine.”

I snapped. “No, I fucking won’t be fine. I’m gonna fucking bleed out if you don’t call 911 right now. So stop being a fucking retard and get me to the emergency room!” I struggled to stand up, grabbing the white walls with my bloody hands. “If you think you can just get away with this, you fucking can’t! Hey, Dad, why don’t you fucking take some responsibility for once, huh?” I grabbed the front of his t-shirt, leaving stains. My knees trembled and buckled underneath me.

My father reached out and grabbed the back of my t-shirt, trying to keep me steady. “You’re getting blood everywhere, shit hole.” He threw me back into the wall and I slid to the floor with a groan. Stars sparkled as I watched him take his bloody shirt off and wrap it sloppily around my still-bleeding wound. “C’mon, you son of a bitch, you want to go to the hospital?”

I stared up at him, disbelieving. I could barely hear him over the rush in my ears.

He grabbed my long hair and yanked me up. I screamed until he put a meaty paw over my mouth. He leaned forward, a smile lurking on his face. “Well?” he said, beer breath hitting my nose and making me feel sick. I nodded sluggishly. “Let’s get to the hospital then.”

I succumbed to the wave of black and red and collapsed in a heap at his feet.