The Promise, Part Five

Now I get on with life. That's what I decided. Real or not, I gave my word to her, and I always keep my word.

I went home, put the knife away, and kept quiet about my afternoon. Mum wouldn't know until decades later what I'd almost done. Until now, I've never written about it - in part because I didn't feel equal to the task, in part because I know it sounds crazy, and in part because I'm still not sure what happened...and may never be.

I've been there again, on the edge, looking over. I've felt the tug, the insistent pull. The yearning. It's always here, somewhere - maybe a gnat's whisper, maybe Niagara's roar. It's a constant.

Sometimes it's "You're not good enough."

Sometimes it's "Things will never get better."

Sometimes it's "No one loves you or wants you."

Sometimes it's all that and more.

Just because I don't pick up the gun, the pills, the blade, and give in to the want, the need, doesn't mean it isn't there and isn't strong enough. Oh, dear Gods above, sometimes it fair smothers me. Sometimes I wonder that I don't burst into flames, it burns so strong.

Doesn't matter. I promised. Whatever else I may be, I am not an oath breaker. Once given, my word is my bond. I won't be forsworn.

I'll live to the end of my days with it, like a hunger that can never quite be satisfied, but I'll live.

Ultimately, that's all that matters, isn't it?