I wrote this a little under a year ago for my creative writing class at school. Some of it is true, and some of it is not.
Word Count: 975 1,145
Knife
My blade was sharp. I always kept it sharp; kept it ready. I never thought I would get this far however. I was fine now. I was in counselling, I was medicated, and my father finally backed off. That was good. After all, it took this long for him to see that he was suffocating me. I’m fine now. At least, I thought I was.
My mother died a long time ago. It didn’t affect me at all; that’s how long ago it was. I can’t even recall how old I was at the time of her death. Dad often talks about her though. The way she laughed, the things she said, and her great love of books. Apparently she would try to read a book a day. It felt like I knew this woman, my mother, without even meeting her.
I never had a step-mother. Dad said that he promised to love and cherish his wife forever, and he wasn’t going to betray her by running off with some other woman. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be with someone else, even for a little bit. I also couldn’t understand why my mother didn’t tell him to find and be with another woman, if nothing else but for companionship. Wouldn’t she want him to at least have someone there? Perhaps she did say something and Dad didn’t mention it. I guess I won’t ever know.
I’ve never been in love before. Dad said that I was a beautiful young woman who could get any guy I wanted. I never believed him. Growing up in the big city with a quirky single father and no female role model had its effect on me. One could say that I was a little more than ‘rough around the edges’. Not to say that I had a poor upbringing, because that isn’t true at all. But, while Dad did try his best, he didn’t have that ‘delicate feminine touch’ of a mother. Go figure.
I was also very socially awkward. Making friends was particularly difficult for me because, it seems, most children my age had no interest in learning about the things I found fascinating. I loved to read and explore and take things apart and see their inner workings. I often watched the news as well because Dad said it was important to stay up to date with the current events of the world. The only ‘current events’ people at school cared about were who dated who and if someone was beat up that day.
I guess I had a couple of friends in elementary school. We weren’t best friends or anything, but we saw each other enough to consider ourselves friends. I still didn’t find anyone like me, but I was content with what I had at the time.
High school was a nightmare. The two or so friends I made moved to different schools so I wound up alone. By the time ninth grade starts, cliques are already established and people are already divided into their own groups of friends. Usually outsiders are prohibited from entering these groups, and good luck to the one or two exceptions who become a apart of these silly groups. Though, it’s funny how these people really believe that they will all have happy lives together and be ‘best friends forever’ after high school. Truth is, you’ll probably forget half.
Back to home life. Dad was great. He had a good job and took care of me the best he could. He tells me that I act just like my mother even though he and I could be siblings if I was a little older. Although, I can’t really compare myself to my mother behaviour-wise because she’s dead. All I really have are these loving, detailed descriptions of her from Dad. He tells me that she was his first and last. To me that sounds like the true love you only read about in books. But honestly, I don’t think a love like that can be true if your lover dies a while before you do. How are you supposed to live without that one perfect person? I told him that and he just laughed. Then he shook his head, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Just wait, Cassy. Just wait.”
Wait for what? For love to hit me like a freight train and leave me spellbound? For me to fall head over heels for someone the moment I see that person? Does true love really exist? Or is it just some fantasy put into fairytales to make everything sound better? Who knows, ‘cause I sure don’t.
Things started to change though. Senior year. A group of popular kids thought it would be fun to pick on someone like me. It had happened before, but I always ignored it, saying to myself that they were all stupid and weren’t worth a reaction. I still do that, but somehow, it’s not as effective.
Last day of school I was egged. I was covered in that sticky stuff from head to toe and my clothes were completely ruined. Eggshells were all over my clothes and in my hair, and I smelled awful. I ran home crying that day, screaming at the sky why no one liked me. I never received an answer. Maybe because a part of me didn’t want one.
That is why I find myself here today, sitting in my bath tub, my t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor and the water up to my tucked-in knees. I can only stare at the blade in my hand. For some reason, I’m not nervous. Really, I’m not. Actually, it’s oddly comforting to stare at my small reflection in the cold metal. I’ve done this before. Stare at it, I mean. I was never in this exact position. Never, until now.
Even though I (inevitably) ended up here, I am still unsure. Should I do this? If I don’t succeed the consequences could be dire. And how do I know that once that thick, crimson liquid starts pouring out, I won’t become squeamish and try to stop? Should I stop if I do this?
The doorbell rings and I jolt out of my thoughts. Looks like Dad forgot his house key again. I look at the blade one last time before getting out of the bath tub, throwing my clothes on, and quickly going downstairs to the kitchen, putting the knife away. I stare at it briefly for a few moments before gingerly putting it back in its proper place and walking to the front door. I unlock it and open it so Dad can come in. He greets me with a smile and asks how my day was. I close the heavy door behind him and respond with a simple, “Fine.”
I am such a liar.
Subject: Knife 
