Prose

Shadow hidden within another

I’m playing with knives again, sharpening them with a gentle roughness, same as my touch. I close my eyes while admiring the leather strap that endures razor movements. I’ve realized I now perform at my concert with severed hands. Looking at the sharp knife edges, I compare them to the judgments that stabbed me. I’m preparing them, making them the deadliest razors that will be ready to cut down the roots of what hurts me the most. Cold steel on my skin is causing me goosebumps. I watch the line I made and arrange my enemies, calling them by names to stay still and wait for their turn. The X mark was an eraser, that’s why it stood above their eyes for so long. Clean and fast, no complications, with my throwing knives, I multiply them and divide, divide again and survive like every one of them inside me. Pain, agony, remorse, arrogance. Who will list everything and nothing? There was a shadow hidden within another shadow and a circle of light. Sawdust was lying around the feet of those who haunt me. And suddenly, step by step… the air, time and space were gathering around my ankles, along with the spools of blue light in my pupils. The conscience tied the loop around my neck, but the cut was too neat and clear while the knives were flying in a straight line toward the marked spot X. Gnashing my teeth and biting my lips, I kept the blades well smeared with the sweetness of my soul that waited for a long time to feed on their cries. I no longer feel just the blind scar of my willful failure, but I feel all the time in the world how it’s pressing my eyes in one strike, sharp as obsidian, and in the lava of my blood, fear evaporates. Black night no longer rejects me for oblivion and survival, it merges with the ambiguous pain of yesterday, narrowing to the point without the tomorrow. I aim for my weaknesses, chase them with knives because now they will only become bloody trophies hanging on my wall. I can always take some, quench my thirst of the turbulent wounds and corrupt tenderness that those same weaknesses took from my poisonous veins, dug in and dried out every honest touch. Now I can say that my only emotions are a stabbed dream and a blade whose silver color cuts through the moon. Although the ears heard no sounds but the thunder of my heart, I swear I could hear the melody of sharp metal cutting through the roots of my enemies wearing the masks made of emotions. It passed through their skin as if my hands had been doing this forever. However, there was no reaction at first. Maybe it was because of shock or disbelief, but suddenly the pain started to howl. It was as if someone had injected gasoline into my bloodstream and lit a match. I watched the dense, red fluid pouring out of the fresh wounds and praying for death. While they stood over me, my tongue tasted blood on the blade. White teeth with bloodstains laughed at every face- just at the moment when everything became black.
I still don’t know if this nightmare is alive, but I’m breathing, and the real face behind my fears loves when I call it that. The only comfort was the realization that death first came for the face. Too bad it didn’t bring the memories with it.

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