Memoirs Of A Kitchen Knife

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Featured Review on this writing by HJFURL

A story told from the pov of a kitchen knife.

Cover image: pixabay.com.

Memoirs Of A Kitchen Knife.

I’ve been left alone, tucked at the bottom of a kitchen drawer. Left exactly where he placed me, gathering a bit of dust, some errant crumbs and even a couple of speckles of rust. So much for the description stamped on my blade, but then I guess corrosion comes to us all eventually.

Not worth dwelling on that, for even with those tiny specks I’m still much sharper than any of the newcomers. They know that and keep their distance. I’ll still be here in this drawer long after they have been consigned to the rubbish dump.

And I would have been right if she had not been digging around looking for a corkscrew. She moved; I didn’t. Besides, it was such a small wound it didn’t even warrant being called a cut. She cursed, and at that moment I felt things change. Could be that the feeling was helped along with those drips of blood, for there was no doubt that memories began to stir.

She wrenched the drawer out with a clatter, and cursed again when it and all of the contents, including me, went skidding and scattering across the lino.

She’s mad now. I can feel the anger in the air; almost as strong as I once felt his to be. That was an anger that bonded us, till death do us part, but she does not know that. Not yet, at least.

Fingers splayed she reaches towards me, determined to rid the drawer of my lethal edge. Shadows of her fingers dance across me, but before she gets a firm grip on my handle the door flies open. I hear his sudden intake of breath and I know that it is not caused by the shock of what he finds, but rather the shock of her having discovered me.

“What’s happened?” he asks.

“That... that thing cut me.” She points towards me as she sucks the blood from her finger. “Look at it! Ancient trash! That knife is SO gone.” She reaches towards me again, but he moves past her, bending down and shielding me from her sight.

“I’ll deal with it,” he says, his fingers almost a caress against my handle.

“Fine. Just dump it, okay.”

He makes a show of carrying me out to the trash can, going so far as to lift up the lid and let it clatter back down. Me, I’m safe inside his shirt, just as I had been that night. “Okay. It’s gone,” he calls, then treads steadily up the stairs.

Once we are safely alone he holds me securely between two hands. One balances the tip of my blade, while the other caresses the wood of my handle. I’ve long since soaked up the blood, evidence that would point towards his involvement in an unsolved crime. There’s no time limit, not when murder is involved. Forensics can perform wonders and he is not sure what secrets I hold within my construction.

He pulls out a drawer, a different one that holds his clothes. He selects a t-shirt and wraps me up in it; there is almost a gentleness to his touch, a kind of reverential awe in his gaze. That life-long bond that we forged that night has been rekindled. He hides me deep within a nest of garments, but I know I will not be left here for long. That drop of blood has worked its effects on his mind and my steel; soon he will put me to use again, and me, I’ll do my best to protect him.


Submitted: February 15, 2021

© Copyright 2021 hullabaloo22. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:

Comments

Mike S.

Excellent serrated edge blade tale, Hull

Mon, February 15th, 2021 8:49pm

Author
Reply

Haha! Thank you, Mike.

Wed, February 17th, 2021 6:31am

Joe Stuart

That's an interesting idea, Hully, having an object narrate the story, but it worked.

Mon, February 15th, 2021 9:38pm

Author
Reply

Thanks so much, Joe.

Wed, February 17th, 2021 6:30am

HJFURL

Cutting edge stuff, Hully, and very innovative. I remember, years ago, James Herbert wrote an entire novel, Fluke, through the eyes of a dog: no easy task, particularly when it comes to achieving realism, keeping the reader gripped - surely expressing the thoughts of an inert object, however sharp, must be even harder - but you managed it, executing it, so-to-speak, with perfection.

Tue, February 16th, 2021 3:02pm

Author
Reply

Thanks SO much, HJ.

Wed, February 17th, 2021 6:24am

Mark A George

Very nice, Hulla. It reminds me of a hilarious humor piece by Simon Rich told from the perspective of a condom. Horror and humor, my favorite genres!

Thu, February 18th, 2021 4:45am

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