Alaska Summers::D6::FIN

The knife in my hand was well balanced. The blade was as sharp as a shard of glass. It shone in the afternoon sun. My long delicate fingers traced the edge of the blade carefully, memorising the feel of the sharp edges against my fingers. The blade was cool to touch and it sent shivers down my spine. I small smile played at the edge of my lips as I pull my hand away from the knife’s blade, satisfied that it was sharp enough. I bring the knife close to my face, observing the patterns that were engraved in great detail of the blade. Large hazel orbs eyes stare back at me, a mixture of emotions played in them. Excitement, anticipation, nervousness.

Pulling the knife away from my face my eyes travel over to the target that I have set up a few meters away. My eyes sort out the middle of the target, which I have marked with a large red cross. It’s ironic really, marking the spot where I’m about to try and attack with a knife with a red ‘x’, something people associate with help… Pulling my mind away from my thoughts I put all my focus into what I am about to do. I correct my legs, spreading them so that they are shoulder width apart, then I correct my arms, tensing one arm back, my throwing arm, and having the other one in front of me, helping to keep my balance. For years I have practiced knife throwing and for years I have seemed to get no better.

But today is different. I could feel it, in my bones, in my skin. Today I was going to different. I was going to hit that cross. My mind races to the time when I was ten. I had stood in exactly the same position. My arms tense, my whole body tense, preparing myself to let the knife go. I had stood in that position for a good few moment, seizing up the target, getting my bearings. Then the knife was flying at the cross at a speed that I couldn’t believe, my hazel eyes had been wide with anticipation, fascination. I was so confident that the blade was going to anchor its self into the board. But no. The bloody knife decided that it did not want to bury its self in the board, but to fly past it and land in the grass five meters away. Frustration had filled me as I stormed after the knife, my mind stirring like the beginning of a storm.

The sound of the wind in my ears brings me back to the presence. My golden brown hair whips out in front of me, cutting my visions into strips, impatiently I pull me hair back and with a hair tie I pull my long honey locks into a pony tail, making sure that no fly a ways will get in my view. After another few moments of fussing with my hair I return all my focus back onto the task at hand. I stare down the cross and the cross seems to stare back, it seems to say give it your best shot. You know you will fail. Every time for the last 8 years you have. Today is no different. At that I let the knife go, flinging it as hard as I can at the target. It slices through the air, coming to a halt and burying its tip into the intersection of the cross.

I don’t even need to see my reflection to know that my jaw has dropped. I stare at the cross. I think nothing. I do nothing. Then, it all comes to realisation. I had did it! I has hit the cross! Right in the centre. A fierce sense of pride and triumph flares through me, a smile of pure pleasure wiped across my pale face. I turn away from the target my body burning with pride and happiness. It reminded me of a time, a few years ago. When I was younger I was able to climb nearly any tree in the district. None of them fazed me as a challenged, well that is what I had thought until I came across one that refused to allow me to climb it to the top. I had gone home, distressed and desperate. Mum had come rushing to my side soothing me, trying to calm me down, and trying to understand the reason of my hysterics. I had been surprised when she started laughing, her whole body shaking along with her laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” I had asked, offended that she found amusement at my distress.

“Honey, it’s a tree. You’re going to let a tree beat you? You out of all your brothers and sister, I would never have labelled you as the one to be giving up.” Her voice was light and friendly as she said the words. But to me they were like a slap in the face.

“Giving up? Mum! How could you say that! I am not giving up… I just… Mum I’m going to climb that tree.” My voice had been filled with that determination that I am so well known for around the district.

That’s when I had marched out of the house, my mother following me, and all the way to the tree which would decide whether or not I was giver uperer. I knew I wasn’t some who would give up that easily. I was a stubborn person. I was someone who never game up. I was determined. After a couple of moments I reached the tree, and without a pause I placed my hands on the rough trunk and began to climb. As I got higher the branches beneath my feet became more flexible and I began to sway with the tree. I felt like me and the tree were one, like I was part of the tree, another branch that branched off. I had never felt anything like it and when I looked down, the pride that I saw shining in my mother’s eyes, well, it made me want to screech with joy…

The memory of my mother brought a few tears to my eyes, instantly dampening the feeling of pride that had swelled up in my chest. So many people tell me how much I remind them of her, my hazel eyes, my honey brown hair. But most of all it was my determined attitude. They would tell me that no one was as determined as my mother; they told me that I was nearly a picture perfect image of her. But of course, like every other living thing on the earth. We have two parents, meaning that two people contributed to the genes that I have today.

My mother was almost saint like. My father on the other hand, he was like the devil. He was always off dealing with people who, I swear, look like they would slit my throat without a second thought. He is cunning and sly, and the attitude attached to the man! His snaky comments and sarcastic attitude, well they were enough to drive any sane person mad. This is where I come in, as I said before; everyone has to get a pit of both. I happen to get to be the lucky fellow to gain his snarky sarcastic attitude. I just can’t help it, when some pisses me off I bite at them letting them feel the full brunt of my imperfect personality.

My eyes gaze back over to the place where my knife struck the target, and instantly all the thoughts about my parent evaporate, replace with the same fierce sense of pride that had filled me earlier.