Tonight is the Night
The curtains were drawn, which is not unusual, as they have been drawn for the last two years. Ever since Jared died.
Karen flopped down in the recliner she used when rocking him to sleep, as if the pockets of her oversized terry cloth bathrobe were weighted down with rocks.
She poured herself a glass of wine and brought Tchaikovsky up in iTunes on her laptop. Karen sank into the recliner, sipped her wine and closed her eyes.
“Tonight,” she whispered.
She picked up Jared’s baby book and blanket that lay on the table beside her. “Yes. Tonight,” she hissed.
“No hesitation,” she thought. “Clean. Straight through,” she said as she reached for the knife under the mattress. She briefly remembered how her husband, Michael, taught her how to defend herself using the same knife she planned to use to take her life.
She reclined, finished the wine and let Tchaikovsky sink into her soul. She opened Jared’s baby book to his first picture — her holding him and Michael cutting the cord. She held his baby blanket up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The scent of Jared had left the blanket long ago, but for her it was still there.
Karen folded the blanket again and placed it back on the table. Closed the baby book and put it next to the blanket. She picked up the knife, rolled up her bathrobe sleeve, and held the knife tightly in her left hand. “Clean and straight through. Tonight is the night.” She draws an imaginary line from the base of her right thumb on her wrist up to the middle of her forearm.
She hesitates. “No hesitation,” she says to herself. She bears the knife down and winces in pain. Karen smiles in relief. She knows this time she’s successful. She hit the artery. “Won’t be long now, Jared.”
She sits back in the recliner holding the knife in her left hand. She closes her eyes and lets the blood flow freely and quickly from her wrist as she continues to listen to Tchaikovsky play in the background.
Karen smiles as she remembers each milestone in Jared’s short life. The day he was born. His first step. His first tooth. His first word, which was not mommy or daddy. It was “No.” A very loud and vehement “no.” His first haircut. His first Christmas. His first birthday. His death.
Tchaikovsky is fading in the background and she could feel herself getting weaker. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt heavy. She could feel the warmth of the blood sliding down her wrist and her hand and her fingertips. “Not long now.” She opened her eyes, but could only see darkness. “Yes. Not long now.”
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: Have someone select one object at random from each of the rooms in your house. Now, write a story using each of those objects..
I gave Talia this prompt: In 100 words or less, describe (in as much detail as possible) the worst vacation you or your character has ever had.