The dustbin of The Desired is nearly always a let down, but I did find an old steel knife, 9cm long, amongst potato peel and Kleenex. I hid the knife from Sasha.
A knife can have a funny affect on you. You know what it is capable of, it knows how weak you are. So on a cold hard night when I couldn’t sleep the knife gave me the idea to sneak out of my family house; the drama to keep me going through the dark pouring rain; the arrogance to wait there in front of his house. It knew me well.
I stood leaning against a roadside tree, watching what I thought was his bedroom. The light was off. I imagined him asleep, I pressed the knife against my hand in my pocket and realized how very alone I was.
I had pretended to know him. It had been an intense passionate relationship in my head, he was a brave hero who looked after me come what may, in my head, my very own personal Jesus, in my head, but the knife told me it was all a lie. With that lie there were many more lies, friendships evaporated, what was Sasha to me? Or I to her? Who was my brother when he wasn’t with me? Right there standing in the cold rain outside a stranger’s house the knife was my real friend. I knew it was real because it hurt when I pressed it into my flesh. I picked up a chestnut lying on the ground, took the knife and cut into the shell, it slid open easily, inside it was empty accept for a shriveled old skin. The rain became huge great shards of ice between me and everything else, and I was just a cold shell, hollow and hard.
Action was needed!
I couldn’t have come this far and done nothing. There was meat in that house waiting to be taken. I felt so cold and wet, my mouth watered with the thought of his warm body, the need to clasp hold of it, the need to devour hot red blood fueled flesh. I had a knife in my hand and it felt a strange attraction to his back.