Into the Unknown

William

Staring at the ceiling in my bedroom, the recollection of the fight from earlier today continues to fester. I know I shouldn't still be angry, yet I am. At the thought of facing Phillip again, a cluster headache starts to form somewhere in my left frontal lobe. Great, I think. Just what I needed.

I still haven't heard from my father when he will be back home or whether he's coming back at all. It's been weeks since I have heard anything. When he read my e-mail, my father must have thought to stay longer than I assumed he would. My mother has been gone as well but I don't want to raise any suspicion as to where she could be. Better to leave her as she is than invade her privacy. She deserves that respect, if not more than what I already give her.

My bedroom lights are shut off, the only beams coming from the half-moon outside in the dark night sky. The house is completely silent; I'm home alone.

A wave of sadness floods over my heart; it starts to weigh heavily but there's nothing I can do to cheer myself. After everything that has happened within the past seven months, I'm confused, lost, undecided. My life is falling apart – First Shelby dies, then my father disappears, and now possibly my mother. When will it end? That's all that pops into my mind when the thought of any of them, the people I love, takes over, dwelling even in the darkest and most concealed nooks and crannies of my brain.

I struggle to get up from my bed, the wood frame groaning as it's relieved of my weight. There is stiffness in my neck, but I rotate my head in a circle. A crackling sound comes and the stiffness is released. I need to relax but I'm unable to.

Once I've risen, I make my way downstairs into the foyer and guide myself down the long, dark hallway leading to the kitchen. Shadows line the walls where picture frames hold ghost-like pictures of my family. I'm unsure why I have brought myself here. It's as if there is a whispering voice leading the way, telling me where I'm to go. I obey, letting it lead me into the kitchen, near the stove.

My chest is burning, aching with every breath I inhale then exhale. Delirious to what's around me, my head starts to pulse violently from the headache. Falling off balance, I grasp the counter nearest to me, regaining my stability. I place my hand to my head, where the cluster of pain has grown. Something isn't right.

Looking near the stove, there's a wooden block, with flat metal ends that shine in the moonlight – my mother's special knifes set away on the knife block, cleanly organized and put away in their slots.

Slowly, following the edge of the counter, I walk over to the stove. The only sound I take note of is the light shuffling of my sockless feet and my heavy breathing. Pain still resides in my chest but it doesn't bother me any longer. Instead, the whispering voice is growing into a shout, distinct and far away, but I know it's near. The yelling is within me. It tells me to walk forward, to grab a knife. I know I shouldn't; yet the urge is too strong for me to pull away. I reach out for the closest knife on the block, glancing at it as it shines in my hand against the pale moonlight that illuminates everything around me. In my mind, I think to myself that I was going to come into the kitchen simply for a cup of tea, but I never thought at any point in my life, that it would come to this – the only thing between me and death, a simple knife.

Cautiously, I go over to the sink. Staring out the window at the fields that are gray, shining with fog that hangs heavily over the ground, I think little of the happiness that I have, if there is any left at all to recall. I'm worthless, I tell myself. It's all because of me. Shelby is gone, along with mom and dad possibly. There's nothing else I can contribute to the world. My time has come to an end.

With that said in my head in the silence of the dark kitchen, I lift the knife to my arm near my brachial artery. For minutes, I stand there contemplating if I should do this or not. Is this what I want? Would people want to hear that this is what I did to myself?

Sweat forms above my brow, slowly falling down my face as I get closer to the climax and abrupt end to myself. Shaking with fear, I press the blade to my skin, puncturing through the first few layers, minutes, possibly seconds, away from my death.

Before I make the final cut, a light switch flips on, lighting up the whole of the kitchen. A body rushes towards me, knocks the knife out of my hand, falling into the sink now spotted with my blood. The body pulls me towards them, setting me on the floor while they race to grab a first aid kit conveniently packed away in a cupboard not too far away. I'm still unaware of what's truly happening and I'm unsure who is here with me. My vision is spotted and blurry; I'm lightheaded from the bleeding where I was able to puncture through.

The person comes towards me with a box in hand, pulls out something white and stretchy, wrapping it around my cut.

Unexpectedly, I start crying. A gut-wrenching cry comes out; I'm not able to control it. My body shudders and shakes with every breath I take as they continue to wrap my arm, stopping the bleeding. I don't want them to stop it. Instead, I want to fling my arms, fight back, and finish what I started. I want to be strong, but all I do is lie here on the cold tile floor limp, vulnerable, helpless.

"What have I done..." I cry out as the tears continue running down my face.

A hug swarms around my body but I don't want to be comforted. I wanted to leave. Forever.

"It's all my fault . . ." I say between chokes and sniffles. "Everybody's gone because of me." My body shudders one last time before my body becomes heavy and exhausted from trauma. Everything goes black and I fall into the safety of the arms of unconsciousness and sleep.