I stand alone in a darkened room; shoulders hunched, fists clenched, toes gripping the cold floor. So suddenly and yet it was somehow expected – a thudding sound and a piercing pain. A sharp cry is heard as the knife slides between my ribs. It scrapes against the bone. I swivel around rapidly, looking for the source and shudder to find my shaking hands wrapped around the hilt.
I withdraw it, thinking of throwing it away when I’m seized by a sudden urge. I slam it in again. And again. And again. Gouging out my heart, mincing the flesh around, cutting open the organ that has caused so much hurt and emptying it of the gloopy oil inside.I tear it out of my chest and fling it aside; hands dripping for a few moments before the blood dries and congeals, making intricate tattoos on my palms and forearms. The blood soaks through my shirt and falls to the puddle pooling at my feet.
I beat my sodden chest, a macabre drumbeat, the timeless tempo echoing with grief. I thump my chest, magnifying the dull ache; feeling a brief moment of the sharpness that grants me clarity every time my skin makes contact with the mangled flesh until I can feel the sharpness no more. The clarity I need no longer available no matter how hard or how fast I hit my bloodied bosom. I scratch my eyes, claw at my skin in desperation, trying to find that beautiful moment of peace. A moment in which all thought stopped, a moment that I wish was more than just a moment but instead was my reality.
I shove my fingers into my mouth, trying to tear myself in two, drawing blood from the inside of my cheeks. I poke, I pinch, I tear. I rub myself raw until I there’s nothing left of me but wounds and rapidly scarring flesh.
I fall to my knees in the blackness, sobbing and the only testimony to the passage of time is the quiet splash of the steady dripping of my tears.