Uncle Pete reminds me of two things: the smooth blade I drove between his ribs, and the serrated steak knife that had quivered in my hand several hours before my current unfortunate dilemma. With the steak knife, I had convinced myself that ending my pain prematurely wouldn't fix anything and forced myself to put it back in the knife block. I had slid back from the kitchen table, stayed seated for several minutes, and stared at the knife block for what seemed like eternity, trying to figure out my next move.
Dazed from crying myself to near dehydration, I had stumbled through the cornfield on my way to nowhere in particular. Lost in the maze of rancid corn, dried husks crunched beneath my feet, and I sunk a few inches into the cool earth, the moist soil rising around the soles of my shoes.
Up ahead, through the thick stalks, the abandoned, dilapidated shed the local farmers used to store their supplies appeared. Instead of fear of the unknown making me hesitate, a sense of reception overtook me and I went closer. Before I knew it, I had stumbled past the threshold and into the room, unaware that several hours later I'd still be inside, wondering who, why, how, and if I'd ever see that damned cornfield again.
I look up from the cold, hard floor and stare at the chair again, not sure what to expect. Something. Anything. The light continues to dim until the room and its few contents—the walls, the bulb, the chair, and I—are shrouded in blackness.
I never imagined entering the room would be another mistake I'd regret.
I'm gonna die! Those three words echoes repeatedly through my mind, but even though I believe it, I hate myself for reaffirming it, and for a second I contemplate which came first, the belief or the affirmation.
There's something catatonic, paralyzing about staring wide-eyed into pitch black and seeing your flaws, the curse of them, and the mistakes you never had a chance to correct.
Damn, the heat is unbearable. My throat scorches and becomes raw.
It's not death that scares me. If I were impulsive, I would've slid the serrated edge of steel from one carotid artery to the other.
If I had gone through with it, would I be experiencing a similar agony?
I'm struck with a sudden case of déjà vu, then confusion, but not fear.
What's frightening is having a scar of regret on my heart. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.
All I can manage are my hoarse last words. "Thank you." Mercifully, I'm now free of my burden.
Just as I embrace the unknown in a come-what-may manner, to my surprise, euphoria sweeps over me like an arctic chill, and for once, I'm at peace. I rest on the concrete floor, in the dark, mysterious room—a room with only four walls, a light bulb, and a dining room chair—with its door and missing knob.
The door, with those nine words carved in it, now creaks on its hinges, allowing a blinding light to creep through the crack and stretch across the floor. The glow illuminates me and my surroundings better than any bulb ever could.
THE END
What's Done in the Dark