The Last Knife
She wanted to commit suicide.
It wasn’t that she really wanted to be dead, she just wanted to be in control.
So she thought about it. She stood at the kitchen sink, arms deep in the hot, soapy water, sweat snaking its way down her face. Some of the droplets fell into her dishwater (not very hygienic, she thought) while the rest made their way downward, soaking her faded Atlantic Braves t-shirt. Her husband sat in the living room watching TV and shouting his commentary in to her, his voice blending with those of the television and the street sounds coming through the open window.
She wondered if there was a knife left in the sink. She imagined it drawing across the flesh of her wrist. She could see the blood flowing into the dishwater, blossoming like a flower at first, then spreading until the water changed from dingy gray to a washed out red. I will, she thought. If it is here, if the knife remains in the water, today will be the day.
Anticipating, she slowly reached in the soapy water and pulled out a cup, then a saucer, wiping each one carefully before rinsing and stacking in the drainer. Each plate bringing her closer.
Until finally, the last dish washed, she stood with her hands in the water. Then, with a sigh, she pulled out the stopper and watched the water form tiny waterspouts as it emptied out of the sink.