Two Knives

This story prominently features somewhat graphic mentions of suicide and murder, so if you are triggered by either, please proceed with caution, or avoid this tale entirely.

*~*~*~*

She could go either way.  She had a plan for either contingency.

In the first, she was in the bathroom, with the light on and the door closed, maybe with the shower raining down over her.  The wrists were too sketchy, too uncertain, the inside of each elbow was a much better shot, a much better chance, especially if she went one, two, and got both.  She'd have enough muscle control for that, as long as she moved quickly, and she could.

She'd leave her cellphone on the sink, set to her memos, with a note detailing where to go to find her post-death instructions, and apologies to whoever found her, apologies for the mess, for the waste of water, for the smell, whatever needed apologizing for.

On her laptop, exactly where she said in her memo the information would be, she would have a detailed list of information, what she wanted to happen, who she wanted to notify.

The second plan was a lot riskier, involved waiting for him to fall asleep, and praying she got the cut just right, so he didn't struggle and make a bigger mess than was necessary.  The other woman, not her, but his wife, she wasn't the most attentive, and if she'd had a long day, she'd never notice.

No, night was better, wait until they were asleep, together, and again, one, two, taking off before anyone found them, living high on their hogs until she could get away.  Far away.  Never to return.  Probably would end in a jail sentence, but it wasn't like her life couldn't benefit from three meals a day and a consistent place to sleep.

She sighed, looking at the knives, sharp, if a bit small, and put them in the knife block where they belonged, shaking off morbid fantasies for the reality of emptying the dishwasher, shaking water from clean dishes and putting them where they belonged, moving dirty dishes from the sink to the dishwasher.

She wouldn't do anything, she knew that, but sometimes, the fantasy kept her sane, for just one more day, gave her something to think about that wasn't what she was already worried about.  It continued to be enough.