10,000 Knives

Reads: 253  | Likes: 2  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story regarding the insanity of addictive thinking, the surrender and redemption.

Submitted: March 25, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 25, 2019

A A A

A A A


The cold hardwood floor held nothing but my unmade bed, that and two bare feet. The walls lay barren and colorless. The only light that would ever enter my room came from a small window that was above my bed. The panes of the glass were fogged with grime from the outside world letting in a light that was tainted. This room held me prisoner. This room is my life.
 
In my hand I held a knife. Long was the blade and true to its sharpness. The handle was made of bone. I wrapped my small fingers around the handle as tightly as I could, as if it was the last grip I held to this reality. Today would be the last day in a world that held nothing for me. I would see nothing of this world again. I reached back and with as much force as I could ask of myself I plunged the blade of this knife deep into the wall. The full length of the blade penetrated the wall. Fear imploded inside of me as I did this. I thought to myself, “What have I done?” With extreme effort I loosened the grip that I held on the knife. I stumbled back to the center of the room to see a trickle of blood seeping from the wall. The blood was black. It was as though I had wounded the day and now the blackness of night was starting to enter into a world where it was never meant to be. The thought came to me; I started something that I now could not stop. The trickle of blood held me hostage and I couldn’t look away. Time stopped and I was alone.
 
In this world I created no one is allowed. There is no movement or knowledge. There just is. I am in a state of being. The blood stopped seeping from the wall. The fear had left me. I created it and now it was mine to tend to. I accepted. I picked up another knife and without aim or apprehension plunged it deep into the wall. There was no fear this time but the thought that I was justified in doing it. I was now the maker and creator. I was in control. This was my room to do with as I pleased. I stepped back and watched the trickle of blood seep out from where I cunningly placed the knife. I no longer felt the cold hardwood floors that I had felt for many years. I felt nothing.For the first time in my life I felt nothing. I stood there watching the blackness trickle down the wall. It stopped just below where the first one stopped. Although I couldn’t feel anything I felt an uncontrollable urge to do it again. Another knife did I wrap my tiny fingers around. I ran towards the wall and without prejudice plunged it into the wall. I am master in my room. I am King. I stepped back to watch the trickle of blackness seep from the wall. I stood there infatuated by what I was doing and what had transpired. Hypnotic the blood was and as I stood there an image started to formulate in my mind. I would be the conductor, an artist in which I used knives to create the haunting image that would last a lifetime. What I create the world would see and they would relate the pain seen on my canvass and feel empathy for me. I picked up another knife and did the same as I did before. I continued with this repetitious motion. I became religious as I now had a mission. The day turned into night and the tainted light shinning in through that tiny window disappeared, not to be seen for many years. Hundreds of knives lay in the walls of my room, then thousands. In all I placed 10,000 knives into the walls of my life. Many years did I stay in that dark room plunging knife after knife into the walls.
 
There comes a time when a person must stop. I grabbed the last knife. I looked at the hands that for over twenty years had created a one of a kind masterpiece. The calluses were many and the lines of age were deep. The hands that at one time were small, weak and smooth had grown to the point where I couldn’t even recognize them anymore. “Whose hands are these?”, I thought. I wrapped my old bony fingers around the final knife. This would be the final blow, the final stroke to a masterpiece that was in the making for over twenty years. The hardwood floors that at one time were shiny now were blackened from the blood. Disbelief started to come over me. How could I not notice that the floors had gone black? Have I bled so much that I couldn’t even comprehend the difference between what creates life and what sustains life? I will finish what I have started. I am the keeper. I plunged the final knife into the only spot left on the wall. Nothing bled out. There was nothing left to bleed out. I looked around the walls of my room of 10,000 knives. A masterpiece so ugly that no one would want to look at it. What was suppose to reflect the pain and suffering that I felt was nothing more than a hollow existence. I stood there exhausted. I could no longer stand to look at it myself. I closed my eyes. Blackness was all I could see. Blackness and silence.
 
In a person’s life there will come a time when it is darkest before the dawn. I could not get to a place where it was any darker than at that point. Sometimes an eternity can pass by in a second. Something stirred. I opened my eyes. Directly in my line of vision did I see a crack formulate between two of the knives. The crack then proceeded to another, then another. A web of cracks not just in front of me but all around me started to form. My masterpiece was not yet finished. The visible cracks were a faint white. This gave a new contrast to what I had been attempting. I looked around my room to see the beginning of something new.
 
With all the cracks in place and no more room between the knives for any more I felt compelled to pull out a knife. I closed my eyes and walked up to a wall, reached up to feel the handle of a knife. I wrapped my old tired fingers around the bone handle. I pulled the knife out and stumbled back to the center of my room. I opened my eyes and watched as the walls of my room fell to the floor. Piece by piece, knife by knife fell. The hollow shell that was once my room now lay in a rubble heap on the floor. The black room that once was now held a light of a new existence. The window that once was tainted by the outside world was no longer tainted. I smiled and decided that it was now time to make my bed.


Check out Rhymis's Book


The Resurrection Cactus

If you've enjoyed 10,000 Knives then you'll more short stories in The Resurrection Cactus

© Copyright 2019 Rhymis. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Flash Fiction Short Stories