I really creeped myself out writing this, you were warned</br></br>
There was a knife. Gripping the knife was a glove, and in that glove was a
hand. The hand belonged to a man, but the man belonged to the knife.
They walked through the foggy streets and dark allies. The collar of the mans long coat was turned up against the chill and against the prying eyes of other men. They where thirsty, the knife and its man and they slouched towards the pubs and bars of the seedy side of town to quench themselves in something warm.
The day was done but the night was not taking hold against the gas lamps and the red lanterns put out to line the streets. There was light enough here to see by so long as one did not want to look to closely, or see to clearly. Which was a good thing in the estimation of this neighborhoods patrons, for their was much to buy here but all of the districts wares where best seen in soft lighting and best forgotten by the morning.
The man passed such things without a glance. He feared to look to long or stare to hard. Where you to ask why he did not look he would say he was better than that. But if the knife where to ask him he would say that it was to risky to be noticed. But when he asked himself that question he had no ready answer simply that something about the objects for sale frightened him. Still he perused the
It was a strange game the man played every night for his knife. Looking for the right one to buy tonight, without looking of course. Eventually he found it, just the perfect thing. One like his father wore. He approached sheepishly and haggled the price a little and went home with it. Not his home in the rich district but its home nearby, still a place alone enough for the knife.
The knife took the man and stabbed the merchandise, again and again with its man. She moaned and screamed but it did not stop using the man until it was sated. It left a mess, it liked to leave a mess knowing that the cities cleaners would be by soon to figure out what had happened and to clean it up and it knew they loved the messy ones the most. The knifes man worried about the cleaners, that they would learn he was part of it. He feared that they would scold him, punish him like the thing his father used to wear did. The knife however did not care. He knew that if the man was taken from it it could easily find another man down at market. They where a dime a dozen and even cheaper if you could make the right
- The Knife; short story