Knife

When I imagined doing this with a kitchen knife, the shimmer of the blade and the sharpness of its edge were not apparent. My mind focused on the wound. I saw the wound, not the blade. I should be worried about the wound, right? I better conquer that fear first. I'll be ready. Now the anticipation of pain didn't worry me as I picked up the knife. The knife worried me. It was real. The handle was too real in my hand. Too hard. Too fitting. Someone had made this to fit my hand. I wondered if it was a girl - a pretty girl. I bet she was nice and happy. I bet her happy hand touched this very handle. Her family is proud of her. My family will be happy too. The only kitchen knife we have will save them from misery. This knife represents our poverty. Now it represents a key to wealth. A key to my heart. I love them. At last the treasure chest is opened.

"Nick!"

I dropped the knife.

"Ahhhh!"

"Honey! What the Sam Hell! Pull it out!"

The point fell on my foot.

"Damn. I'll need stitches. Call the ambulance, babe."

They whisked me away and I never had another self-destructive thought again.