The choir boys were singing, the bells were ringing, and snow hurled down like angels’ tears. Just behind the church was a playground, where I sat waiting for nothing on the swings, watching the snowflakes drift by. The last heavenly verse came to a close, it went silent; then a deep voice began to recite the Gospel. It was nearing Christmas then.
My parents had sent me all the way up to North Dakota to live in a no name town with my aunt. Here, there was nothing to do, except to weep and repent, because everyone in the town tried, they believed in God, and I was bored out of my mind. As I lamented over this fact, my coat began to fly in the wind, revealing my school uniform. Just over the chest was an emblem depciting a dark horse, lifted up valiantly on its two hind legs. Vivamus est fames, embroidered above. I had ripped it off when I first arrived. They had to sew it back on.
A figure emerged from the white fog and sat down on the swing behind me. It was Nicholas. He was a choir boy. He was my cousin. He was deformed. One of his arms was missing, so his shirt sleeve dangled lifelessly in the wind, as if it were sick and withering. His left leg was abnormally twisted and bruised, a shade of unsightly purple. When he walked, he hobbled, because he was in pain, and though he was always smiling, I could tell. He took each step slowly, one at a time, as if the next might kill him, and someday, it really would. His face was heavily scarred from the surgeries. An obtrusive hearing aid protruded from the sides of his head. The doctor said he would go deaf soon. Nicholas was twelve years old.
“Hey.” He gasped out a single word. The walk from the front of the church to the back had taken its toll. Still, he smiled.
“Nothing much,” I said. Then I gave him a big, phony grin. Like a devil. “How about you, though. Shouldn’t you still be in there?”
He gathered his breath before answering. “The procession is all over now, so Mom’s busy talking to all her friends. I thought I might find you here.” Then he burst into a coughing fit, which lasted an uncomfortable amount of time, before he cleared his throat and looked to me.
“You didn’t have to go through the trouble of coming over here, Nicholas.”
“Ah, it’s not a big deal. I can handle myself fine. I don’t want anybody to worry too much about me.”
I frowned. Sometimes, Nicholas sounded too mature.
A moment of silence blew away in the wind before I spoke. “Nicholas, wanna see something cool?”
He nodded, and from the inside of my coat jacket, I pulled out a knife. The handle was dark black, perfectly well-kept, without a speck of dust on it. The blade was razor sharp, I made sure it was every night. I’d been looking for an excuse to whip it out.
“Balisong. A butterfly knife. I saw it in a store and I had to have it. Costed me all my allowance, about fifty bucks, maybe. I like to wave it around when I’m losing a fight.”
Nicholas leaned in closer to me with wide eyes, taking in every fine detail of the knife. “Wow,” he whispered. “And you use this thing in real fights? Like the movies?”
“Mhm. Check this out.” I held the blade closed in my hands before flicking the blade open and rolling the handles through my fingers. The sharp end spun round and round, just enough to not cut my hand, making a mesmerizing pinwheel motion, over and over, until I sharply flicked the blade back to the left and snapped it shut.
Nicholas opened his mouth in amazement, not moving for a second before clambering over to me and begging, “Let me try!”
“That’s probably not a good idea,” I told him, but he insisted, and not wanting to spoil his fun, I obliged.
I watched as Nicholas grasped the handle, tightly and nervously, his hand shaking. “Hold it at the end,” I said. “Then flick it open and spin it around your finger to start off.”
Nicholas’s eyes concentrated solely on the blade; he took a deep breath. The wind was howling at that point, the bells rang. Then, all in a blur, the blade flashed open revealing its steel edge before Nicholas lost his grip and flung it into the snow. I leaned over to pick it up, but Nicholas stopped me.
“Let me try again,” he said.
“That’s not a good idea.” I sat back regardless and watched.
This time, Nicholas stared at the knife for a long time before he began, only the wind’s screams filling the air. The bells had stopped, the choir had stopped, the Gospel spoke no more of its wisdom. And in my head, I thought that the only thing here was to weep and repent. The blade flashed open, shot quickly across Nicholas’ hand, before he let out of wince of pain, dropping knife, which was stained with his blood. His hand shot crimson, and the bright red seeped into the snow.
“Ah, Christ, Nicholas.” I walked over and wiped off the blade in the snow. “Jesus, your mom is going to kill me if she sees that.”
I looked over at Nicholas, who had fallen over and was kneeling, looking hard at the ground. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“Just clean it up in the snow, alright? And don’t tell your mom.”
He nodded, silently digging his wounded hand into the snow. The wind finally died. I was bored out of my mind.
“Can I try again later?” he asked after his blood had all been absorbed by the snow.
I sighed. “Of course not. And stop trying. You’ll never be able to do it.”
And then I gave him a big, phony smile. “Well, I’m bored now. Let’s go see if your mom is ready to leave.”
There’s no kids to fight in North Dakota.
The car ride home was dead silent until Nicholas finally spoke. “There’s a new organist. She just moved in.”
“That must be real exciting, Nicholas.”
The car ride continued in silence. Squirrels were finishing up collecting for the season. People, finely dressed, walked in and out of the church to worship. Students bearing the same uniform as me all crowded into the library in groups.
“I want to try again,” Nicholas muttered.
I thought of my school uniform: We must live with hunger.
Living is starving. In that case, I’d rather I wasn’t alive at all. I’d rather die, and then laugh at the people dying.