It’s dark. It’s always dark. Inside my mind and out. It’s dark and I’m trapped, in more ways than one.
Do you know what it feels like to be trapped? Trapped like I am? Take your worst moment and then imagine reliving it over and over again. Never being able to move on, only able to live in that moment. That’s how I live. But I don’t want to anymore. I want to die. But I can’t.
I’ve seen death. Many times actually. Up close. It’s a real unique thing, I’m not sure I know anything else quite like it. I just don’t like the redness. The sticky stuff that’s all over me after death has been achieved. It makes me feel dirty, and I can’t wait until the next time that I’m clean again. Pure.
If I’m honest with myself, and I try to always be, I really don’t think I’ll ever be pure again. But I can dream. Everything can dream. I have the right. I can dream. I just can’t make myself believe they’ll ever come true.
You see, I am the one that brings death. All the deaths I’ve seen that is. I’m not sure quite how I do it; I just know that I do. I think it might have thing to do with the redness again. But I’m not sure.
Sometimes the ones I bring death to enjoy it. They beg. They gather me up and embrace me, bringing right inside themselves. Or they just brush me against their skin and then look at me. The redness comes, but I don’t mind it so much then. They chose it for themselves. They look quiet, happy. So that’s how I feel.
It’s when they didn’t choose that I hate. When they fight and struggle and I dart and whirl until finally I catch one. And then they die. But they aren’t happy. They’re terrified. I can smell their sweat, and see them run, and hear them beg. But they aren’t begging for death. They’re begging for life. And I take that away.
Even more than the redness, that’s what makes me feel dirty, tainted. Like I would be better off as they are, unfeeling. But I don’t have the escape of death, only the prison of the darkness. The stifling silence.
But it’s not total silence, I can’t block out what I’ve done. It’s the silence of the world, not the silence of me. I’m busy with the replays, going back through every second of every time that I was out of the silence. When I took a life. That should be a good thing, something to pass the time, but it’s not. How could it be.
And that’s all that happens. All the time, one after another. Silence, killing, silence, cleanness, and then more silence. Every day the list of replays getting longer, but the time between the killings getting shorter. And I can’t stop. How can I change my nature? I can’t end it. I can’t die. I can only guide death.
I can guide it to you if you want. Is that why you’ve taken me from my silence? Because of the death that I bring? And your sure that you do want it? Death isn’t so bad, from what I’ve seen, but you have to know. You have to understand what it’s like before it comes to want it. To use me. Your sure? Yes, I guess you are.
And the redness comes.
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This is what comes from reading Ernest Hemmingway's short and abrupt writing style and then responding to a random writing prompt on the Internet. I was trying to write from the point of view of a knife, without you quite knowing that that was what it was. Did I succeed? Thoughts appreciated.
I liked how you hid the fact that it was the knife talking. That was cool.
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