Blade

December 6, 2010
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After everything I have been through in my life I always try to get a quick escape. As I lay there with the blade in my hand, and a headache so excruciating a tear rolls down my cheek, I think about me as a kid… In elementary and middle school I was the one that always smiled, laughed, and skipped down the halls, but now eight years down the road things have began to go down hill. I began cutting roughly six months ago, when I killed my best friend.

We were at a party drinking, and he needed a ride home. I told him over and over again that I shouldn’t drive, because my brother died while drinking and driving. He didn’t care. He said that I only had one drink, and it was better for me to drive then him. I felt completely fine, but I still didn’t want to take the risk. He pressured me into it. He threw me the keys to his old, Chevy truck and he piled in the passenger side. Shaking, I pulled the screeching handle, and sat down, turning the key in the ignition.

The road was wet and the headlights barely broke through the thick darkness ahead. I was taking it slow, not wanting to drop down the fifty foot cliff on my right side. Kyson was slouched down in his seat, not worrying about a thing. I envied him. Twenty minutes down the road, we were still ten minutes from his old farm house. As we make our way around a sharp corner, a Ford diesel truck swerves into our lane, with a drop-off on the other side, I had no where to go. I slammed on the brakes, but the other truck was too big, too strong.

I remember only seeing the headlights blinding me, and then laying on the cold, glistening asphalt with a small puddle of blood under me. I lifted my head to look around; a short, stubby man got out of his truck and ran toward me. He was on his cell phone, clearly talking to 9-1-1. Then he was kneeling beside me, asking me all these questions. “I don’t know.” I said in a faint voice. Kyson came to my mind as the words left my mouth. I asked the guy where Kyson was, but he didn’t know anyone was with me. I sat up, looking for him. He was fifteen feet away from me, lying motionless on the road. I tried to stand up, but the pain was unbearable. After a short painful crawl, I was laying by him, my best friend, my life. I knew he was gone. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see him again, so I was determined not to let go of his hand. I sobbed into is flannel shirt, until the ambulance got there. I refused to let go of him, so they put us side by side in the ambulance.

All I remember is the ride was long and bumpy, and then things became a blur. I woke up in a hospital bed, cold and alone, all except for my mom sitting right beside me, grasping my hand tightly. She noticed my eyes open, and she stood up wiping the stream of mascara running down her cheek bone, so I wouldn’t notice that she was crying.

“Oh, Honey. How do you feel? Any pain?... I love you.” She said in a comforting voice.

“No, I feel fine… I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Everything is going to be okay, it’s not your fault.”

She was lying. It was my fault, and it never was okay. I killed Kyson. I was stupid, and didn’t think. I should have put my foot down, but that’s how I’ve always been. I’ve done what everyone told me to do.

So every night when I swipe the blade across my wrist I am reliving the pain I brought to Kyson, his friends, and to his family. There isn’t a day that passes without the guilt reminding me of his death, and of the murder, that I committed.





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