| The deed must be done. I know that this is true. I can see him tied up in the corner, his tanned skin damp with sweat, his eyes two glistening sapphires, the dark pupils wide with fear and helplessness. The tough ropes bind him, trap him, leave him vulnerable, slice and grind into his wrists, exposing raw sinew. He’s shaking, fearful of what is to come. His lips plead to me in a desperate attempt, begging me to reconsider. The smooth wooden handle of the knife is molded perfectly to my hand. I can sense the souls of the people slain by this weapon, who feel that the time is near. They seem to stream out of the cold steel blade and wrap tightly around my wrist as if to ensure that I finish what must be done, what my destiny foretold, to add another soul to the endless maw of wails that occupy the knife’s domain. I bring it closer, tracing the blade gently through his hair, slicing a chunk out of the greasy, chocolate-colored spikes and watching each hair flutter to the floor in a ballet of patterns. I’m enjoying the expression of terror on his face. He is trying to move, but his quivering is apparent. What a pitiful wretch of a man! I take the knife and slowly stroke the flat side across his cheek, the cold metal caressing his warm skin. He pulls away instinctively, creeping backwards into his dark den until the ropes stop him. He cries out in pain as the grooves in his wrists are carved even deeper. I think of the consequences. Perhaps this man has done me wrong, but the terror in his eyes speaks regret, the lament of his actions. If I actually commit this felony, will I forever be haunted by this man’s ghost? Will I still see his fearful blue eyes watching me every time I try to sleep? Will this knife, the epitome of all weapons forged by man, become forever the slayer of life, the blade incarnadine with the milk of human existence for all eternity? So young, so weak. . .He’s powerless to stop me, the one who holds the knife. I look down to my hand with the grim realization of what I was about to do. How could I become so obsessed with the power of this weapon? I was, in fact, the one who was powerless, bowing down to the penetrating force of the knife. If I slay this man, I am just another pawn, a slave to the urge. I drop the knife and fall to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth. I look to the bare lightbult hanging from the ceiling. It swings back and forth, the light swaying from our rapid and terrified breathing, the rasping sound of fear. Now the condemned and the executioner are trapped together, held by the will of the weapon. |
| Double-Edged |