I put it in a roasting pan and put the pan in the oven while my mother’s and grandmother’s voices get louder and louder, their blaming and cheap shots turning into gibberish. When I look at them they’re a blur, their voices become pressure like each one is stamping on one of my temples, trying to hurt each other through my body. And I press my hands against my ears but it doesn’t keep the noise out and doesn’t make the pain stop and I’m so dizzy I could throw up, so I try to stop the spinning by fixing my eyes on something static in front of me, reaching out to grab something still to keep my body and my brain from spinning anymore and puking out the nothing that’s burning a hole in my stomach, and the first thing, the closest thing, is the heavy wooden knife block. I steady myself on it with both hands, and then pull the chef’s knife out of its slot.

It’s the kind of thing you have to do in one breath. Hard, like you mean it. With intention. The heel of the knife cracks through my jeans and half an inch or so into my thigh, and soon blood pours out, thick and generous. The ghosts of my mother and grandmother are quiet. I hear the waves roar at the rocks outside. I wail back at the waves. I hear them again when I breathe in and wail back louder. My face streams salt water and I scream and shake and it almost feels like the sea and me are evenly matched.

I’m on the floor somehow. So’s the knife. If you don’t look after knives properly they go dull. You shouldn’t leave them lying around. I can’t just leave knives lying around like this. I pull myself up. It’s hard, though. I don’t want to get up. I have to wipe my eyes a few times. I reach down and pick up the knife. My jeans are all stained on the right side. I wonder for a second if I’m still bleeding. Not that I care, really. I’m just curious.

It’s hard to turn on the faucet to wash the knife. It’s another one-breath job. Even with rubber gloves on it’s too much for me right now, and the crying starts all over again. It’s not so bad this time, probably because I’m crying over something real—the pain in my throbbing leg.

I dry the knife and put it back into the block, and then slide down, pressing my back against the cabinets on my way back to the floor. It’s like someone rubbing my back. Almost. And the thought is so pathetic that before I know it I’m streaming again.

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