• It's a knife day. You know it is.
    There's something in the way the early morning light spills through the blinds. There's something in the way the carpet feels between your toes, rubbing your skin with cottony fingers. There's something in the way your teeth feel when you accidentally bite the spoon while you're trying to eat your cereal, that hard metal tang lingering in your throat. There's something in the way the blood from your nose falls in the bathroom sink when you're brushing your hair. They call it a splatter pattern, the people on those cop shows your mum's always watching. It's just like that.
    It''s a knife day, all right. And you're late for school.
    Your mum groans from the lounge as you open the front door, so you close it quietly, softly. It's not cold outside. It never is this late in February, now that the hole in the sky is bigger. But still you wear your jacket, telling yourself it's because of the chill in the air and not because the large sleeves are good for hiding things.
    You sniff and smell jasmine on the air. You dab at your bleeding nose with a handkerchief. When it bleeds everything is silent, quiet.
    The bell's ringing as you round the corner, but you don't rush to get to the gate. You always wait a few minutes begind the wooden fence of the park. You wait until no one's around.
    You crouch back against the wood and, as you wait, your hand strays to the right sleeve of your jacket, touching the cold metal through the heavy material. It brings you comfort even as it make you shiver.
    Splatter pattern, that's what they call it you know. Your head tells you. Splatter pattern.
    You tilt your chin to stop the talking, but it's still there.
    The second bell rings, the last bell tolling, and you rise and set off. You try not to look at yourself in the mirror in the toilet block. The glass is dirty, speder webbed with fingerprints and streaks of Windex. It makes your face look jagged, uneven, unreal. Your nose bleeds again, just a little and it hits the front of your jacket. It looks like
    splatter pattern. The mocking voice tells you.
    More like red M&M's until it runs with the water in the sink. Then it looks like tears.
    You take out the knife and tap it against the porcelain bowl. It doesn't echo so you tap it louder, frowning. It still doesn't echo so you hit harder against the bowl, hitting it again and again, listening for the echo that isn't there. Until the door opens and Mr. Carruthers comes in, asking what all the noise is. You slip it back, into the safety of your sleeve, and you say nothing and push past him. He watches you too. You can feel it.
    The bell rings again, making you jump and making the knife-point p***k the skin of your wrist under the jacket. You head to Science and sit at the back of the class, slumping in your seat.
    Your teacher walks in and says hello. She puts down a pile of books and says open your textbooks to page seven. You hunker down, trying to become the desk, trying to be a part of it.
    She asks who'd like to read. You see her eyes on you. She asks where your textbook is.
    Don't
    You don't say anything. She frowns the way she always does, the lines on her forehead going starkly white, like chalk marks.
    Don't
    She says to you “Didn't you bring your textbook today?”
    Don't
    You don't say anything.
    Don't
    She says she's sick of this.
    You see the whole class looking at you, swielled around in their chairs, ees on you. You move your hand and the knife comes out a little further. You hade it beneath your palm.
    Her face goes red. “I've had enough.” she says.
    Of what?
    You slouch lower, until your chin touches the desk. She says “Look at me.”
    Don't look at me.
    The knife is hot against your flesh, she says to stand up. You say no. She says “What did you say?”
    Tell her what you said.
    You say no. She says “What did you say to me?”
    Go ahead and tell her you coward.
    You say no. She comes closer, her face going redder, the frown lines going deeper. She says to stand up.
    You stand up.
    She asks what is in your hand.
    Show her.
    You say nothing.
    She says the class would like to know.
    Show them
    You say no.
    She says to open your hand.
    Open your hand.
    You say no.
    She says that she isn't going to ask you again.
    Open it
    You open your hand.
    She takes a step back.
    You see the rest of the class push back against their desks, trying to get themselves away from you, leaning to the sides or the back. But their eyes. Their eyes never leave you.
    She asks what you have there.
    Show her
    You raise the knife and touch it to skin. It's hotter now, burning, searing. You blink, feeling the blood pumping from your nose and you look around at the class. For once they're not looking at you. Their eyes are wholly on the knife.
    And suddenly, there is silence.