when i picked up my first knife, it was raining. it was the fall, or the beginning of fall. it wasn't yet cold, merely chilly. but the rain was cold. the knife had a metal handle. It felt good, the knife in my hand and the rain on my face.

i got into my car. music played while i drove with one hand. i didn't want an automatic, but i got one anyway, still, that doesn't matter now. the music was loud and beautiful. i yelled at it. i screamed, it isn't fair. it isn't right that you can be that beautiful. it hurts me to think someone else could make something they might not even give a shit about that makes me scream at an empty car with a knife in my hand in the rain. it makes me scared.

i got to the field. it was muddy. the mud stuck to the sides of my shoes, and it would have bothered me, but that doesn't matter now. i walked out into the field. it was still raining and you could hear it on the grass. cars go by, they sound like bacon.

my brother wanted me to be something i think. he's who i disappointed the most. he tries to hide it, but i can tell, he doesn't like me. he likes computers and japan. he doesn't even know who i am, but that doesn't matter now. i read a book on japan, it was all swords and honor and shit.

it's wet out here. the metal of the knife is warm now though. i read that they kill themselves in the belly. they cut their belly and don't even make a noise. at least the strong ones don't.

i kneel down in the grass. like in the pictures from the book. i kneel down and pull up my shirt and feel my belly. the headlights from the cars whip across the field.

i can't tell if i'm crying.