Glistening
in the light like an iced champagne bottle was an ivory hilted
knife, wrapped up in a hand; poised and dangerous. Twirling
nimbly between digits, it slipped and turned, dancing a number in
the air, cutting through the stifling blanket of hesitance;
slice, retreat, spin, repeat. The magic was in the
movement—haunting, seductive and addicting. The knife
brought forth a language, one that spoke of dark threats and
murder in the night, but also of hello and how do
you do, have I caught your attention? Nothing but light,
glittering metal— the color of heaven; the knife seemed
innocent enough. But it had seen more bloodshed than the walls of
a trauma center, thinly veiled with lies of painlessness and
speed. I was not to be
deceived.
Word
Vomit
