My Favorite Knife

I haven’t posted in a few weeks, but I’m always writing.  I started a new writing class, and all my energies took a detour to pure fiction.

Here’s one of my assignments:

Think of something you would never do. Then write a passage about a character similar to yourself who does do that thing you would never do such as dive off a cliff, cheat on a partner, steal from a department store, etc...  Keep it short.

 

My Favorite Knife

I can’t get the knife out. My hands keep slipping off the handle. It slid through his ribs easier than I would’ve imagined, but why would I have ever imagined it in the first place?

I shake my head, close my eyes, try to concentrate.  I’ll never live past this moment -– wow, I’ve never even hit anyone before. That’s not true — my kids got plenty of spankings.

No one will believe I actually did this.  Humph, the police’ll believe.  I guess I believe.

I look around my office for something I can use to give me more leverage in extracting my favorite knife from Jerry’s chest.  I picture myself standing on the round belly of my dead boss — wobbling around as if I were attempting to stand on a beach ball — hammer claw slowly prying out the long slender fillet knife I use for slicing cheese.  I start laughing.  Oh no, I have to stop. The gurgling, hard sound coming out of me doesn’t feel controllable.

I’m always in control -– I’m good at it.  I’m kind, loving and gentle.  Everyone always marvels at how I’m able to work for Jerry.  He’d chased off dozens of assistants through the years.  But not me –- I can soothe a twenty-foot crocodile waking from a ten-hour nap.  I’ve put up with his ass for seven years — until today.

I take my slip off from under my dress and wrap it around the slick-with-blood handle.  I straddle Jerry, one foot on either side of his broad chest, toes buried in his armpits — he would have given anything to have me in this position when he was alive.  Squatting down to get the best grip, I pull steady and strong.  The knife jumps out and I stumble back, tripping over his sprawled legs.  Blood flings in a high arc off the knife, making a spray across the wall and ceiling — looking just like one of Dexter’s spatters.

I gain my footing.  The knife’s still in my hands, dripping down the front of my favorite dress.  Ugh.

I stand there, energy gone, wondering what the hell I’m doing.  Do I actually think I could dispose of his huge carcass?  Why did I pull the knife out?  Should I put it back in and call 911?

As I contemplate my options, the door to my office opens and I see the bowed head of Jerry’s partner as he enters the room, cell phone in hand.  He finishes dialing and looks up as Jerry’s phone starts to ring…

– debi

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