Sly Mongoose

Reggie was not sure what he felt, and for a few short moments, that was because he felt nothing at all. The knife was blunter than he had supposed. Perhaps his mother had dulled it chopping chicken backs for tonight's supper, or likely it had suffered from the sawing of tough old mutton for last night’s feast of curry goat and rice. Reggie did not care, dull though it may have been, the blade was still fit for the purpose. As he had intended, it cut through his skin into the tender flesh below as he moved his hand determinedly from left to right. Each move revealing a deep and gaping wound.

He applied as much pressure as he could muster – he wanted to do this right, for once and for all. It was harder work than he had imagined it would be, slicing through his own flesh, yet he had somehow expected to feel more, to hurt more. He desperately wanted to experience pain, but he was simply numb. It was as though he were floating above his own body, viewing the scene from a safe distance somewhere in the rafters above his head. He almost imagined that when it was all over he could simply clean himself off and rejoin his family back at the house, going about his life, business as usual. It occurred to him with some surprise that the most vivid sensation was in fact, the smell. He couldn't identify it at first, but then he slowly came to realise that it was the sweet and sour stench of his own blood clotting and congealing almost the instant it mingled with the thick, heavy air in the barn. If the knife didn't kill him, the humidity would. Next there was the almost soothing warm feeling as the thick crimson blood left the fresh wound and spattered onto his chest, his hands, the blade of the knife. His hand continued its traverse until the thick, blunt blade reached the bottom of his right ear, just as the motion had started at the bottom of his left.

“So this is what it is to die”, he thought solemnly as the blood gurgled out of him, more gently now. This was the beginning of his end. His knees gave way beneath him and he sank heavily into the ground. He was small for his twelve years, light as a feather really, yet still he fell like a toppled sack of yams, the floor below seeming to rise up and meet him with alarming speed. His last utterance was “Oh”, his last thought was “Cussie”. And that was the end of his end.