Thursday, October 24, 2013


That night, when everyone was gone, he looked at the knife on the kitchen bench. He looked at it long and hard, wanting to drive it through himself. He didn't know where, and it didn't seem to matter, as long as it hurt enough to cut away the pain that truly ailed him. He imagined that moment when it would pierce his flesh, anticipated the rush of blood, the moment of panic, the subsequent release. But, as always, he lacked the courage to try. So he lay down on the cold wooden floor instead, and cried. And then he wrote, because pain is the writer's ultimate elixir.