The Murder Weapon

The knife, it was from our kitchen.

I remembered it, it sat in the dish rack, waiting to be placed in the drawer, only an hour before…

Or ten minutes…

Or two hundred seconds, was that all it took?

There they were, the blood, the torn flesh, the smell of death. I didn’t know that smell, not yet. But the knife, there was a strange power in it. I felt it humming silently in my fingers.

Awful, beautiful, horrible and poetic. My eyes stung with tears, they fell on the blade, that morning so innocuous, the crimson life pulled away where they hit.

I held the knife for hours, letting the gore dry on it, letting the bodies turn cold. They had meant something, but now they were just bodies, their meaning left with their blood.

I knew who did it, I remember every detail of his face, of the hand that held the stolen knife, but I didn’t say a word.

I found him, you know?

I found him and stole a knife from his kitchen, and then I let him live.