The Woman, the Knife and the Whetstone

         Alice had picked up a knife from a drawer in her kitchen. The wooden handle was worn from use. There were chips in the wood, and the varnish had long washed away. It wasn't her knife, yet it held a familiarity to her. This was his knife. The knife that had caused much destruction in her life. Alice ran her finger against the edge of the blade. Dull, just like her life has become. She shuffled through another drawer, finding the whetstone. The cold block of stone was heavy as she held it in her left hand. This isn't my kind of thing to do. Why am I even holding this? Alice returned her attention to the whetstone and knife. Slowly and carefully, she slid the knife against the surface of the stone, from the bottom to the tip of the blade. The eerie sound of steel on stone reverberated through the empty house. Oh, how she hated that sound! It brought back memories of her late husband sharpening the knives every night. That sound was so haunting. It had come to an end but a month or so ago. That was when this very knife sliced across his throat. Blood started to drip from the stone, and Alice realized that the rhythmic motions of sharpening the knife had been halted by her other hand getting in the way. The red frightened her, and the knife and whetstone dropped to the floor. She grasped her bleeding hand with wide eyes. How could she have done such a thing?