The blade was only difficult on the way in; it moved gratingly and with much effort. He had to throw his arm behind it, and the reverberations shook his teeth. But the pull--oh, the pull. It was like the flourish on a well-practiced signature. The blood hung lazily in the air when it roiled from the point. His arm swung wide at full extension. The pull was his favorite part of a knife.
Of course, his victim felt the opposite feelings. Suddenly, a hollow ache and a thumping pressure as the blade penetrated, but a sharp sting and a heartbeat's pause when it left.
If he had taken the time to think, he could have written poetry about the pull that would seduce even the hardest of women, before they knew it was his love song to a knife.
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That this exists
ReplyDeleteand that you wrote it
fits.
This is oddly beautiful, in its own way. Rather violent as well, but still beautiful. Nicely written.
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