Knife

	by Parr



Knife.  Look!

I look again and smile at the cold, smooth silver. Knife.  My little
friend.

Flick the holder off and gaze at it, the intricate design of a deer 
running, caught in the brambles.  Then flick it away.  It is not what
I want.

The knife slides gently down my fingers.  Don't fear, my freind. I
know what I'm doing. Taught myself.  It took many cut fingers but
ironically now there will be none!  

See? If I slide it like so...the half-sharpened edge against the palm
of my hand...then there is heat. The warmth of friction.  A hint of
pain, but none actuall.

And look -- no, please don't turn away -- that even the edge will not
always cut.  I can slide my fingers under and over it, and it feels
like silk.

Here's the point.  Now it is sharp, but if you place it slowly into
the palm of your hand, like so, you can even balance it without it going 
through more than a few layers of skin.

Please don't cry. Oh! There, I've put it in my pocket.  It's safe now. 
Why are you so sad?  I think I used to know, but I can't recall now. 

There there.  Dry your tears.  I did this for us, remember? For us?
So we can be safe.  Safe now.  Always and forever.  

Lock the doors, now.  They shan't get us.  As many of them shall fall
as I can manage, and then you and I shall go.  Hunted as we are, 
they'll never get us, my friend.  Never shall we be degraded.  
We'll die by our own hand.

My friend.  The knife.