I’ve saved this blade for five years. In the beginning, I couldn’t have known it would come to this. When I first placed it in my drawer, I swore never to use it. But not because I disliked it. It was the first gift I had ever received, given to me by my father. He had never bothered to give me anything besides my eyes. Navy blue, like an evening sky. A hunting knife wasn’t the typical birthday present to give a nine-year-old girl, but I loved it more than anything. Maybe that was the first sign something was wrong. Maybe that was when my mother should have loved me instead of getting a replacement. 

Black metal slides lightly over the rough stone. I am conscious of how the rectangular rock bites into the long blade. Each new scratch pains me, but it’s a sacrifice I must make. The soft gritty noise of steel wearing down to a fine tip eases my nerves. I quickly get lost in the rhythmic sound. 

I don’t know how much time passes as I sit at the dining room table. The analog clock on the wall beside me to my right slowly ticks down. I savor each second. Lifting the five-inch knife to the light, I gaze at the razor-like edge. I bring my finger up to the blade and gently slide it across. The familiar feeling of skin splitting open makes goosebumps appear on my arms. A thin trickle of blood cascades down my finger and settles into my palm. It’s almost time.  

I don’t sharpen the knife anymore. It lays on the table beside me, a constant companion from the day I set my eyes on it. This was almost poetic, in a way. It was how it should have always been. Not two. Never two. One. Perfection. Nothing else. No one else. 

The door to my house opens and closes with a bang. Everything is dark except the dining room where I wait. Soft footsteps draw closer and she walks into the light. Dark brown curls hang down to her chin, outlining bright green eyes. The eyes of her father. They look up at me with such love that I almost break. Almost. 

She isn’t family. 

“What you doing up there? Get down, Soph-ie,” She says with a giggle, and tugs on my pant leg with small cream-colored hands. I smile, the tiny fracture in my defensive wall cementing into resolve. It’s now or never.  

I lift the black blade from the table and trace the faint trail of blood on my hand with the tip. Staring down at my little sister, I think somewhere deep down she knows why I’m doing this. 

“Bella. I was just thinking about you.”