Twisting Knives

I tried not to cry out or show any sign of weakness as he twisted the knife that he had plunged into me. I could see straight into his eyes. Deep, brown eyes that sparkled with malice, disappointment and triumph.

When he finally stopped talking, all I could feel was numbness. Numbness and shock caused by his words. A real knife would have been more merciful.

He's now fast asleep following an apology, his arms wrapped around me. But I lay awake, thinking about that knife on the kitchen counter. That knife which can take this pain away.

That knife.

I have nothing to lose. For a while, a few years ago, I had the ultimate reason to live - that little blue line on my pregnancy test. I cannot find the word to describe that feeling. Happiness? Anxiety? Surrender?
Hope. It was hope. I don't know why exactly - but I think I felt hope. Like the child's birth would be my rebirth. She would have given me a purpose to live. She would have needed me .

'Like how you need me', the knife beckons.

My baby decided not to come into this sick, twisted world, after all. 5 months in, after all the dreams she'd built with mommy, she decided it wasn't worth it. She was right. The tiny little peanut inside me was right. This life isn't worth being born into.

'Then what are you waiting for?', mocks the knife.

No one would feel bad. Mom and dad haven't cared since the day I brought Tony home and told them I was marrying him. They didn't think a truck driver would fit the family image. It was never about me, mind you. It was always about the family. What would people say? How many times I heard that, growing up. It was always about other people, and how we dressed, how we ate, how we shat. Come to think of it, I don't think they'd ever cared before Tony either. I think they'd just needed me to complete their perfect picture. And when I created the unerasable blot, they wiped me out. I don't exist anymore in their perfect little bubble.

'Don't you think it's time you burst your own bubble?', taunts the knife.

Tony. I still feel a glow inside me when I remember his dimples dancing as he smiled. How easily he used to smile. And how much he made me laugh. How he used to call me a silly girl and kiss me on the nose when I said something he didn't agree with. How he constantly played with his lush, thick, dark hair. Oh god. The butterflies still flutter at the pit of my stomach when I think of the old him. The other him. How happy that first year had been.

'Ancient history.', the knife reminds.

He rarely smiles now - unless it is accompanied by my tears. He has no hair, unless you count those few strands of hair that cover up his bald spot. And he doesn't say 'silly girl' anymore - when he talks, he aims for the kill. And leaves me gasping for air. Sometimes, I pretend this is happening to someone else. And I find fleeting happiness - till the next tirade starts.

'Don't you think it's time to face reality?', reasons the knife.

I used to think I'm lucky he never lays a hand on me. That 'emotional abuse' was just something weak people had invented. Till that hurt started to settle in. Hurt that grew into pain. Pain that grew into horrifying anticipation.

There are no more butterflies in my gut. Just knives twisted in so bad that every time I move, I feel piercing pain shoot through me. And I wait. I anticipate the next stab. I prepare myself. I steady myself. But I always, always fall into a heap on the ground. The apology that comes after it used to make me feel better, until I realised how hollow and repetitive it was.

'I can make this go away. Pick me up, you know it's time.', the knife cajoles.

I used to have friends. I used to have colleagues. They all listened to my Tony troubles. They all tried to give me suggestions. Most just asked me to leave. And when I didn't, they did. Abandoned to loneliness. Then when my mind couldn't take anymore, I quit. I quit my job. I quit the idea of friends. I think that's when I quit life .

Not a single person, to even pretend to care.

'See how smooth I feel against your skin? It'd be just like cutting butter. You won't feel a thing.', coaxes the knife.

What have I got to lose? Nothing. Absolutely, gloriously nothing.

I've never had this kind of clarity before. Sure, I've always thought about it, but I think this is it. Wish me good luck. I'm sorry I rambled on - I'm going to go away now. Away to freedom.

It's all going to be good.

'That's my girl', beams the knife with pride.



Officer Kramer later filed his report. Several neighbours had heard screaming and called the police. When Kramer had broken down the door however, all was silent inside the dim room. He shuddered when he saw the body marinating in a pool of blood. But it was what he saw next that chilled his spine. It was the bloodied woman sitting across the balding, male body - her face and mangled hair matted with the immense blood splatter. As he looked down at the knife she clutched to her chest and back up at her face, a slow smile spread across and she laughed. Laughed like he had just told her the funniest thing.
And she didn't stop until they sedated her.