Late at night, the knife whispers to me as I go to sleep.
Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t command me, it would never try to control me. It‘s not that kind of knife.
It simply whispers.
It asks about my day, what I’ve been doing. And I know it genuinely cares about my answers.
It comforts me when I’m feeling low, and congratulates me when I’m feeling well.
It tells me it loves me.
And I know that love’s an important thing.
That’s why, if it ever does ask me to do anything for it, I will. Without question.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Labels: 100 words, Drabble, Knife, Madness, Short story
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