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The Lake

As I walked along the edge of the lake, sweat shined on my forehead, red on my fingernails. I always loved the color red. I loved the red roses growing in the bushes nearby, and sometimes the sky turns a bloody red when it’s about 5:00pm. I glide my switchblade through the high, wiry grass that is a dull green, the tops slicing off again and again, disappearing into the bottomless pit of tufts of grass. I look over the lake and watch the water ripple, stronger on one side, and pushing small waves to the other side, as though someone had decided to take a dip. I think I would hate anyone who did that.

    My toes are covered in mud, from walking around this lake, which I have walked so many times. I rub my hands with my red fingernails and watch the ripples on the lake more, feeling the breeze on my face, as though it were a hand, brushing hair off my cheek. That’s what the man I loved did, but he doesn’t anymore. I take that thought out of my head and throw it in the lake, because everything I hate is in that lake. I hate mosquitos, and I hate the green squishy mud on the edge of the lake, and I hate the look of the brownish water, splashing at my ankles, asking me to join all the things I hate in that lake.
    My switch blade is still gliding through the air, decapitating the long grass over and over, falling into that hateful lake. Little traces of crimson are left behind, but I like it. The shorter grass brushed against my ankles, it’s tickle making me smile. The man I loved used to playfully tickle me, chasing me around the bed until we would both fall over laughing, but he doesn’t do that anymore. I take that thought and throw it into the lake, because I now hate that thought. My switchblade hits something a little tougher. I look to see a thin tree, my blade putting a small dent into it. I lean down and write the date, carefully weaving the numbers so they don’t appear choppy. Some red drags onto there, but I like it. I step back and look at it, admiring my penmanship. That is how I used to look at the man I loved, but I don’t do that anymore. I think of him, and I throw him into the lake, because everything I hate goes in there.
    I keep trudging on, cleaning some more red off of my silver blade, leaving some red on the tips of my fingers, but I like it. I shuffle my feet against the ground, the grass bunching up against my toes. I sigh and look at the sky, and I see the bloody red dripping down it. I smile, for the color red makes me feel beautiful. The man I used to love made me feel beautiful, but not anymore. I stare at the crimson on my hands, finding more splotches of it the more I look, it’s sticky feeling too much to bear. I lean down to the edge of the lake and dunk my hands in, but the water is turning red too. I stand up and wipe my hands on my pants to dry them. I look at my switchblade once more, seeing his initials are carved into it, engrained in its silver. I feel the hatred bubbling up inside of me. I see him, and his tough demeanor, rough hands grazing mine, watching his eyes crinkle when he smiles so big. I swallow hard and throw him into the red lake once more, because everything I hate is in that lake, and that is where he shall stay. 






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