Vacillation

An experiment in writing:

He held the knife, tip quivering, over his upturned palm. The temptation, yet at the same time horror, was overwhelming. He was left in tortuous limbo. Fascination and something like pain filled his stomach. No, not pain exactly. More, a vacuum, yes, an emptiness in the pit of his stomach which had little to do with hunger. A yearning? Perhaps that would be a better word. Not that any of this occurred to him at the time, for his entire being was focussed on the juxtaposition of blade and flesh. So close, yet so far. So close…but he knew he would never have the courage to do it; and it was this knowledge that brought the painless, discomfiting, desire for an instant of action. To bring his right hand down; to turn his hand against himself, against its very mirror image. Truly there he would find self-negation, there to truly realise his being: An internal consummation in coming full circle on the path of identity. In piercing himself he would find out his true being, his true ‘I’.
Yet he does not, cannot, will not, and knows he never will. He continues, imprisoned in himself, for evermore, as the knife drops from his shaking hand.

© Alan Bowden, 2006