The knife feels so good in my hands. I feel it up and down, letting my fingers touch the sharp blade. Blood trickles off of it. I stare at it in delight. I am alive. The blood, living, is telling me that I am alive. It’s quite a thrill, and it makes the moment even more wonderful.
No, not wonderful. Or, if it is wonderful, it is the perversion of wonder. Yes…
I ignore the words – words are meaningless – and stare at the blade again, feeling myself get giddy. Unlike words, this is tangible. The blood, the knife… the only thing which isn’t tangible is the feeling that is coming over me. The rush of exhilaration. The feeling of being alive.
It is a wonderful feeling, I realize with a start. It’s silly that we don’t think about life until death is involved. Life, when you are alive, is just a given. Never questioned, never answered. You are what you are. But when death is involved, suddenly life becomes precious. So precious…
“What are you doing?” my brother suddenly says. I see him poke his face in my room.
“Um…” Quick! An excuse! “I wanted to see the molecular composition of blood.”
He frowns. “You’ve been reading some of that poetry on YWS again, haven’t you?”
“Um… actually… yes. How did you know?”
He rolls his eyes. “The last time you read a lot of that poetry, you ‘accidentally’ stapled your thumb.”
“Um…”
“Stop reading that stuff.” With an exasperated sigh, he walks out. I stare at the knife again and then quickly put it away.
Random-ish, but funny. not must to rip apart, though :whistle:
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