One Saturday Night

He knows that something is wrong, something out of the ordinary.

As I rummage through drawers in the kitchen, hands shaking, short of breath,
he sits at the dining table, asking me to seek help.

I sit up on the counter, back toward him, delighted knowing that my search is over.

I test the blade on my middle finger, suprised at how effortlessly my skin is opened.

As the blood trickles down around my nail, he comes around me, noticing what I've done.

He is speechless, now aware of the severity of the situation.

This time, forcing me to seek help, near tears.

Adrenaline shoots up my spine, into my face, feeling the tips of my ears go numb.

Allowing his anger to grow upon me, I push a glass off the table next to me, shattering to pieces the instant it comes into contact with the ground.

He looks at me, commanding me to get out, trying to control his angry temper.

I run out, taking the blade with me, not knowing what I will do next.

I go to the nearest park and throw myself to the ground.

Tears running down my face, drowning every pore and wrinkle.

I slice over top of the vain on my left wrist, not realizing what I've done until the blood pours out.

Again I'm suprised at how painless and effortless this is, almost nothing to compare with the ongoing battle inside of my head.

I enjoy every drop of red as it hits the grass.

I am finally comforted with the thought of knowing that if need be, I could permanently escape.