I Might Be Lying
On Christmas day, I felt I had nothing left to live for and I called a counseling hotline...
I get this urge sometimes, and I think others get it too, to punch things that did not actually do any physical harm to me. The problem with that urge is that I end up actually doing the physical harm. For the fifth time during that cloudy November month on my sunny island country, the keys to my house fell out of my hand, clattering to the floor and I punched the lock in my anger. The curse I let out as I retracted my arm in pain would have turned heads if anyone was around.
Clang clang clang.
That’s the sound of clattering keys, if you’re not familiar with the horror film phenomenon of serial killers standing behind – usually blonde – people. There weren’t any maniacs waiting behind me with a machete when I got up. A right shame, really. That would have been so much less painful than what awaited me later.
Hands still shaking, I picked up my keys and took a deep breath. I held that breath, longer than I probably should have. It steadied my hands, and finally, I unlocked the door to my own home. I burst through, quickly locking the door behind me. I crossed the living room, ignoring the figure of my aunt in the kitchen, and made a beeline for my room.
The door closed silently behind me, and it was then that I noticed the darkness of my room. The clock at my bedside read 17:04. I grabbed the sword off the rack, a katana, ornamental, but steeled and sharp. Without hesitation, I unsheathed the blade and placed the tip at the edge of my belly, the pointed metal of the blade piercing through the canvas-thick cloth of my conscript uniform.