Knives are addictive. Seeing your own blood ooze from a cut of your own making... it's a big hit.
It fascinates me, more than anything else. True, I never do it when I'm happy. But when I'm feeling screwed up, nothing occupies me like the knife does. I run it along my wrist; light at first, then harder, deeper. I squeeze around the cut until a drop of blood forms. I play with it, spreading it around.
I have a favourite knife. It has a black handle with my name engraved on it. B-i-l-l-y. I got it done in a little shop in London.
It's harmless, this little addiction of mine. I don't want to die; I'm not suicidal and I love my life. But when I'm upset, the pain and the sight of my own blood calms me. I drift off into a trance. I could stay like that all day, dreamily tracing patterns into my skin.
This knife has a number on it as well as my name. Near the bottom is carved 0101. I wonder idly what it means, why I carved it in. Zero-one-zero-one.
And then I remember.
January 1st. The day I bought the knife...
I was angry. Yet another record label which hadn't replied to us. I felt like a loose cannon, hurtling along my life with no guidance. I knew we were good- okay, maybe not the best but we were good. Good Charlotte. The name sucked but we deserved a chance, right? And yet, all around me I could see these shitty pop acts being signed up for megabucks. The injustice of it rankled.
I didn't care anymore. I didn't know where the fuck I was going and I just wanted out.
The man at the store gave me a funny look when I tried to buy the knife. Even then I still looked young for my age.
"Are you sure you're over 16?" he asked.
I was getting angrier. Eventually, I remembered my library card- with my date of birth on it- and he let me buy the goddamned knife.
I trembled all the way home. I could already feel the power of the knife, even through the brown paper bag. By the end I was practically running home, desperate to aquaint myself with the cold steel of the blade and, eventually, the nothingness of death.
I ran up into my room and sat on my bed for a while, just testing the shiny new blade against my virgin skin, causing crimson rivers to flow along my pure white arm.
I took a deep breath and pulled a piece of paper over to me.
"Dear everyone, I can't live like this..." No. Wrong tone. I scrumpled that one up and threw it away.
"Yo, dudes, this life ain't working..." No. That one got scrapped, too. In frustration I banged my head on the top of the bed. The wall shook and a photograph that had been Blu-Tacked to it floated onto my face.
I held it in my hand and looked at it. Tears formed in my eyes. How young the five of us looked, how innocent. Me, Benji, Aaron, Joel and Paul. Smiling for the camera. I turned the photo over and read what Benji had written on the back:
"When we make it big, how much will this photo be worth?!"
and then his signature. Such optimism- no if, only a when we make it big.
I began to cry in earnest then. Sobbing uncontrollably, I stuck the photo back up on the wall. I couldn't have let the other four people in the photo down like that.
I made a silent promise to myself that day- no matter how depressed I get, I will never allow myself to get that close to suicide again. I carved the date- 01/30- into the knife to remind me. And I stuck to it- I have never attempted suicide since. Anyway, we got signed shortly after that...
"Dude!" Joel's excited voice breaks into my reverie. "Dude, can I come in?"
I hastily shove the knife away and pull down my sleeve. "Yeah, come in!"
Joel's excitedness has always been catching, and when I see his happy face I can't help but smile, even though I have no clue what he wants.
And I think to myself, "I have the best job, family and friends in the world, and nothing can bring me down without my permission!"