Tears On The Kitchen Knife.
The balding man gripped the razor sharp knife and and cut into the pale flesh.
Tears ran down his jowls.
The knife gleamed, with the tears of a man intent, and filled with resolve. The surgeon held the knife like a killer in some Hitchcock movie perched over his defenseless naked victim, yet he cried.
The hundred cuts he had made were not enough, he sliced again, and again, as his hands were set a blaze with Jack the Ripper precision. These weren’t snips or cuts, these were slashes driven with eyes of lava, that burned his task into even the smallest piece of his victim.
Still he cried.
A voice from the other room asked how long he would be. The slasher tried to hide his resolve and choke back his tears as he made six more cuts that spoke the finality that only a finely sharpened kitchen knife can provide.
Hey wiped the tears from his face and scooped the chunks into the sink, carefully not to get the evidence on his clothes and answered, “Baby, I am done cutting up the onions.”