The Knife

I wake up and reach for my knife to carve a line into my bedside wall as I've done for the past 729 days. I pause, the tip of the blade hovering over the wall, trembling slightly in my hand. I trace the sharp apex through the air, still yet indenting the wall. The simple motion brings tears pooling in my eyes, and I exhale shakily, causing my hand to tremor even more. I close my eyes tight, unwilling, and unable to watch as I carve a line, indicating the 730th day. It's been two years since my life fell apart. And two years since I tried, and failed, to piece it back together.

It's been two years since a lot of things. For starters, it's been two years since I've cried. Two years since I've smiled. Two years since I've had a life that meant more than the life of a lab rat. 

And don't give me that look. I'm not a kicked puppy to feel bad for; I accepted a long time ago that feeling sad is worthless. I don't need your pity. I don't want your pity. So just back off.

What I do need, though, is food. My pantry is too bare, my stomach too loud. I've learned to ration when it comes to food; every time I have to go outside is a risk. But on the rare occasion, I am forced to step out and expose myself to the world. Even with my face covered with a mask and my hands hidden under gloves, I am careful only to venture out when I absolutely need to. Once outside, my skin seems to burn from the touch of the warm sun rays, and black spots dance in front of my eyes as they adjust to the blinding light. Once my frail body adapts to the foreign, extreme environment around me, I set off, making sure to avoid anyone around me.

As soon as I get home, I check my wall. Relief floods my body when I see that there's still an extensive array of lines carved into my wall. Each line represents one day; one day I don't infect those around me. If I do, it starts all over, and I have to go another 732 days. You can call me Patient Zero, I guess, or The Cause. I like to go by Gemma, though. Or my full name, Gemma Celia Evans.

I lay in bed, one hand resting on my knife. I trace the handle, moving my fingers up and down the curves that eroded perfectly to my hands. My index finger gently makes its way up the cool blade, skimming the backside and then making its way along the sharp edge. I press my finger down harder, drawing blood. I bring my finger up to my eyes, watching as a drop of blood drips down my skin. I close my eyes and drag the shallow cut along the wooden wall beside me, staining it with the dark red blood.

You would think that keeping a tally of how many days you've gone would be encouraging. You would think that knowing that there are only two more days to go is exciting, freeing. You would think that the wall reminds me of everything I've done, everything I've accomplished. It doesn't. It reminds me of what I have to lose. It reminds me of the life I've been forced to lead for over two years. 

Now, every time I touch my knife to carve one more line into the wall, it feels heavier. Like the pressure of the past two years has weighed down on the blade. Or maybe it's my wrist, getting weaker. I'm not sure. All I know is that in two days, my life will forever change. For better or for worse, I'm unsure. I guess nobody can be 100% sure of their future. Especially not me. How can I be confident in my future when I'm not even sure of myself? Who I am, how alive I am, how much I care? How can I think about my life ahead when I can't even tell you if I am living right now, right here? I don't know. I don't know anything. Which is the problem, I guess.

My hand instinctively reaches to my knife before I've even opened my eyes. I have only just touched the wall to mark my final day when I realize something is wrong. Very wrong. The wall that usually adorns hundreds of crooked lines carved into the wood has since disappeared. Frantic, I put both hands on the wall, feeling the smooth wood, absent of the progress I had ingrained into it. The knife clatters by my side as I clutch and hold the wall, begging for this to all be a dream. This has to be a dream. I can't live like this for another 732 days.

The dam breaks, and tears flood my face. I scream out, my voice breaking. I scream for someone, anyone, to help me, for someone to hear me. I cry for this to all go away, for this life to end. And then I stop, my voice dying in my throat. And just as quickly as the dam collapsed, it restored itself. I felt nothing; no joy, no pain, no sadness, no anger. I could barely sense my arm stretching out towards the knife I had dropped carelessly by my side. I could hardly feel the rough, worn handle of my knife molding into my hand like it had done for so many days. I could scarcely process what was happening when I plunged the blade into the wall. And it took a moment or two to comprehend that it was not the wall the knife pierced. But by the time I realized, it was too late to see my blood-stained hands and the fatal wound in my stomach. It is too late for me, and I can only hope it is not too late for you.