On A Knife's Edge

• Daniel Palmer, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2010

There was never a better night for suicide. The sky was a thick black, fog hung in the air like a cloud of fear and a sparkling knife sat menacingly in Ben's tightly gripped hand.

He stared at its smooth texture, its reflective surface and rough black handle. He would have smiled if not for his state of mind - the knife had in it all of his life, of past sorrows and those few moments of joy. It held his hopes and failures, his love and heart break. It held everything.

And it was so much like him. Smooth on the outside, a facade that hides the sinister interior - the heart of all evil and slaughter it could bring forth. A glistening mirror-like surface that added to the mask behind which he hid all his darkness and reflected the joy that others could find in life.

But there was no hiding his suicidal thoughts - the rough handle - the dirty work. They lingered with his every action, his every word and they dropped with every tear that fell from his face on that fateful night.

He remembered it clearly. The screech of brakes, the glare of headlights. Ben remembered spilling his mug of teaming coffee, to see what had happened, and on hindsight, as along with the coffee was gone all of his sanity.

The rest was a blur, but a blur that remained etched in his brain - worse than clarity, as it added an ominous mystery to the events.

No more headlights. No more noise. Twisted and contorted metal. Blood. A body - stuck beneath an inflated airbag, not breathing. Clare. It was Clare. The body was Clare! Death. A lot of death - he could smell it, feel it.

Then he was hit by a tsunami of despair and melancholy. Hit harder than anything he had ever felt - and yet it didn't know him over. And he hated the fact.

It was his fault. His wife had died. Why didn't he do the right thing and go to buy the groceries himself?

Even now Ben could smell that grisly smell that is death. Even now he could feel it - in his hand, in the form of a knife.

Someone once said that suicide is the remedy of pain. Ben couldn't agree more. And as the thief that is death swooped upon him, he wondered if it had anything to steal.