My experience with a knife.


1. Short Story.

There’s a knife in her chest.

It takes a moment to register it, her mind in that strange world nobody else can enter, but eventually, as it claws deeper into her skin and skewers the blood out of her breasts, she is allowed to say that yes, there is a knife in her chest.

Trembling hands reach up to try and pry the dagger out of her bleeding ribcage as natural instinct tries to overpower the shock taking over her body, ‘There’s a knife in your chest, get it out - GET IT OUT

A harsh gasp escapes her lips as she can finally move her eyes upwards to focus burdened eyes on the one committing this sin, the one whose ripping away her promised salvation, the one whose ripping away the reels of her life - the reels that would’ve given her the missing pieces.

A blanket of blood is draping over her, trying to keep her warm as the coldness begins to worm it’s way around her limbs, forming crystals in her bones that she allows to halt her movement, allows to lull her to sleep…sleep…sleep

Wake up, wake up, wake UP!’

Her vocal chords rip and shriek as she bolts upright, quivering hands automatically reaching up towards her heart, discovering there was no knife, no hole, just a nightmare slipping away from the edges of her brain. Shadows slumber on her face, undisturbed, uncaring.

She shakes her head furiously, wiping away the tears that had started to cascade down her face. Strangled breaths threaten to choke her as her eyes land on an old photograph, faded and worn from time, the moment slipping off the pages and expiring with the colours as she stares. ‘They’re all the same. She’ll hurt you too SHE’LL HURT YOU TOO

Shivers run down her spine as the night-air slaps her awake as she fights desperately to dwell on her dream, to fight with the voice inside her head  that she tries to rid of by smacking her head against the wall behind her.

Even with the threat gone, survival instincts take over, taunted by the mind that keeps telling her someone’s outside her door. Every thud become the shoes creeping closer, every yowl becomes the taunting of all those similar and every second is something that needs to be clung onto.

She doubles over as pain scratches at her heart, clawing it’s way into places a knife cannot as she prays it had been different, prays it would've given that note on her desk a purpose and prays that dream had been reality. 




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