The Knife

The knife sat there, taunting him. Begging him to pick it up. It glistened in the kitchen lights, winking at him.
He reached towards it, hand shaking. He didn’t want to, but it spoke so sweetly, teeth flashing in a wide smile. He stopped. He didn’t want to hurt himself again, but it had tasted blood once and was hungry for more.
“Please,” he whined. The scars from the previous penance had barely healed. It just winked once more at him and his hand closed around the wooden handle.
He brought it to his forearm and began to make shallow cuts, hoping this would satisfy it. He went to lay the knife on the countertop once more and it bite him, slicing off a tiny sliver of his thumb.
“Ow!” he squeaked. It was far from placated. He grabbed the hilt once more and brought the blade to his wrist.
“Is this what you want?” he screamed into the silence. He sliced through his skin, sawing until the blood flew. As he collapsed, he saw it smile, blood dripping from its teeth, satisfied.

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