by
David Michael Hansen
The water was pink before I knew it. Steam rose from the sink in lazy snakes, the water very hot. My hands throbbed from the temperature of the dishwasher, and something else. I pulled the plate I was scrubbing from the water, rinsed it, and put it in the rack. Then I found out what the something else was.
A thin smear of red stained the plate. I looked curiously at my hands. On the fleshy part of my left palm I saw the first slice.
I almost missed it, it was so clean and even. I ran my fingertips over it, but couldnāt feel it. With my thumb I pulled one edge away from the other a tiny bit and peered inside. It was deep. My palm print lines went all the way down. I stuck it under cold water and then looked at it some more. Blood quickly welled up from the bottom and formed a large drop that left its track from my hand halfway to my elbow. I watched it all the way, a shining red snail. It hurt.
I went into the bathroom and disinfected the cut with some Sea Breeze. It was all I had. Then I put a butterfly bandage on it. It throbbed in sync with my heart, a sympathetic wound. I blew on it, shook my hand in the air, trying to ease the sting.
I emptied the soapy water out of the sink, intent on finishing the dishes later, after my hand stopped hurting. In the sink, among the plates and spoons and Tupperware, was the knife. Serrated. One tiny trickle of red swirled from the edge of the knife to the drain.
I sprayed it with water from the faucet, not wanting to touch it.
The next time I was cut was much, much worse.
I donāt know why it started. Maybe it simply developed a taste for it. Sometimes, something just snaps. All the pieces either fit together or fall apart.
I was watching TV, eating an apple. I had sliced it in half, cutting out the core and the seeds, and was absentmindedly carving pieces and popping them in my mouth. The knife was very sharp.
I cut a small piece and impaled it on my knife. I put the fruit into my mouth, the knife doing double-duty as a fork. It was a really good apple, tart and crunchy, full of juice. The TV show was okay, though I canāt remember what it was now. All I remember now is the knife. How it waited for just the right moment.
Another slice, the knife to my mouth, delivering apple. I never took my eyes from the TV screen. It happened in less than a second.
The knife twisted in my hand, clicked against my teeth, and sliced into my lip and through my right cheek. Shock flooded my body. I grabbed onto the knife and flung it away, horrified. Blood splattered the coffee table, the TV screen. The knife tumbled softly to the carpet without a sound.
My fingers tried to stop the bleeding and instead pushed through a space in my cheek that wasnāt there before. It seemed that blood was everywhere: on my hands, my t-shirt, soaking the carpet. I got up, holding on tightly to my mouth, and ran to the bathroom.
The mirror showed it all. I nearly threw up, right then and there. I had never seen so much blood before in my life, and it made my stomach heave. Blood, red and thick and slippery, was in my hair and up my nose and on my clothes and more continued to slowly seep through my fingers as I stood there, my shoulders hitching uncontrollably. I was whimpering like an animal, and I was crying, blubbering like a little boy.
I moved closer to the mirror and gingerly took my hands away from my mouth. Bubbles of blood and saliva formed and burst on my lips as I cried. It really hurt. The blood made my fingers stick to my cheek a little, and I grunted when they finally separated. Through the redness, I could barely see the slice. A little longer than an inch, it was very clean and smooth. I looked at it as long time, making the connection over and over again in my mind.
I had felt the knife move in my hand.
Another sob escaped my lips and the mirror was sprayed with little red drops. The edge of the cut came apart, just a little. A fresh pulse of blood crawled down my face. I forced my eyes away from the mirror, turned on the hot water, and soaked the washcloth. I cleaned myself as best I could, changed my clothes, and then drove myself to the emergency room. I kept my mouth shut.
Later, I stood in my hallway for almost an hour, afraid to go into the living room. The stitches were tight and they ached something awful. The nurse had said that I was lucky I didnāt lose a lot more blood. She asked me if I had applied pressure to it and I had nodded. Standing in the hallway, knowing what was in the living room, I didnāt feel very lucky, not at all. I took a deep breath and walked in.
And there it was. I had almost expected it to be gone, missing, in hiding now that I knew what it had done. That would have immediately confirmed everything. But there it sat, right where I had thrown it. Innocent, but for the drying blood. I warily approached it, waiting for it to leap up and stab at my face or my balls.
It did nothing. It was just kind of...looking at me, waiting for me to pick it up again. I know how that sounds, I just read it back to myself, but, I swear to God, if you had been standing next to me, the first words out of your mouth would have been, ćThat knifeās looking at you.ä I stood just a foot or so away from it now, daring it to move. Nothing. I waited a little bit more, then I nudged it with my foot. It rolled over, then stopped, obeying every law of physics known.
I picked it up. It was cold and hard, utterly incapable of moving. I didnāt trust it. I put it into my front pants pocket and walked out of the house. I think I had a vague idea about taking it out to the beach and tossing it into the sea. All I remember now is the urge to get it out of my house.
Iām terrified to imagine where that urge came from.
The beach was dark and cold. It was pretty late by then. The knife was in my pocket, but my hands were not. I was afraid to let my hands anywhere near it.
I started walking out towards the rocks, where the surf was breaking, when I heard someone behind me. I turned quickly, with what may have been a guilty look on my face, because he immediately put his hands up in a friendly gesture and grinned. He was talking and smiling, but I couldnāt hear him at all.
The knife started stabbing my leg. I tried to grab onto it through my pants, but it twisted and bent and stabbed into my thigh. I reached for it again, but it faked left and dove right and sliced my leg again and again. I must have screamed something awful, maybe. I donāt know. I stuck a hand in my pocket, trying to get that knife out of there. It hurt, oh Christ, it hurt.
I remember him looking really worried and concerned and coming a little closer, mouthing, ćAre you okay?ä while I struggled with the knife stuck in my pocket. I tried to wave him away, and then he came even closer, and put his hand on my shoulder, and the knife came right out.
And went right in.
Oh God.
I didnāt want to look at his body when the knife was done, but my wants didnāt matter anymore. What was left of him was hardly recognizable, just flesh and blood seaweed. I think I threw up on it.
I came home and almost called the police, but I noticed the knife was still in my fist. It was harder to let go this time. I had to pry my fingers open with my left hand. I started crying again then.
The pain in my cheek made me walk into the bathroom. I looked worse than I did this afternoon. The stitches were loose and dangling, my shirt and hands were covered in blood. Most of it was not my own. I sat down heavily on the closed toilet and cried some more. I wiped at the tears and got his blood in my eyes.
I calmed down. I knew, just knew that it wouldnāt let me leave the house. I stood up and looked into the hallway. It hadnāt moved. I took a couple of slow, careful steps to the phone. Okay, but no police.
My hand pushed her number before my mind even thought about it. When I heard her voice, my smile was wide enough to open my cut and start it bleeding again.
She could make everything better. She would understand. She could get it to stop.
I tried as hard as I could to make sense, to explain it as I knew it, but it all came out with tears and blood and screams and whimpers and just plain wrong. I donāt remember much of what I said. I just remember how relieved and I happy I felt when I heard her say sheād be right over. I said, ćOkay,ä and hung up, knowing it would be so.
Then I saw the knife. It was lying on the floor, where I had dropped it when I came back from the beach. It was still red and wet and slick. I suddenly felt very cold.
I quickly got my notebook and a pencil and started writing all this down. I kept an eye on the knife all this time. No way do I trust it anymore.
I think itās going to be okay. I know itās going to be okay. I couldnāt explain it on the phone, but as soon as she shows up, sheāll read this and understand and itāll be over.
The knife is still there, on the carpet, in front of me. It hasnāt moved. Of course not. Itās blocking my way to the door, just sitting there in front of me. Looking at me again.
Iām afraid. Iām afraid that Iāll go to answer the door, and when we come back, the knifeāll be gone. It knows that sheās coming. It doesnāt want to get caught. As soon as my back is turned, itāll disappear. Nobodyāll believe me.
I donāt want to touch it again, but Iāll have to hold onto it until she gets here.
Got it.
Thereās the door. Be right back.