I hold the knife
It’s shaking in my hand pointing ahead of me. I feel the cold weight in my palm, I balance it between my fingers and take a moment to turn the handle. The blade is sharp, shiny as a skyscraper after rain; it points at my abdomen like an accusing finger, a condemnation. Slowly, slowly, I bring the knife closer to my stomach, about five centimetres left from my bellybutton - press it gently against the skin there with the sharp edge towards my right. It’s still: my right hand, gentle and firm as though it’s done this a hundred times, it hasn’t. I’m fascinated. I press, flesh gives like butter under my insistence. A million crystal flutes shatter somewhere behind me in the west. I grasp the now red handle, drag it horizontally towards the south, in its wake guts spill like a violent river, a flash flood of red and purple charging to meet the sunrise. If I were standing beside myself, outside of me, I’d see the vacant gratification in my eyes, the serene half smile gracing my lips, the crimson fall pouring out from my skin into the earth. The knife, now bathed in maroon, held easily in my right fist. It rises, blade once again facing east, slowly and evenly, challenging. Crystal flutes collapse behind me.
