Knife
Created | Updated Oct 31, 2006
"What the Hell are you doing!?"
That was all Green could think to say. First, the teen was spotted lurking on the grounds of the abandoned foundry; second, he was stark naked and filthy; and third, when Green stepped toward him from the patrol car for a closer look, he saw the red puckered mouths of several stab wounds on the boy's begrimed skin...some freshly bleeding, some gummy and seeping, and some old and crusted over.
But the kid was just standing there, wearing nothing but a slave-collar of sturdy chain, oblivious to his wounds!
"Enjoying the day."
Yeah, right, thought Green. Standing around like Nature Boy at the beach. Well, at least he chose a deserted venue, no citizens to disturb.
He must be a strung-out junkie, a wacko tweaker, concluded Green. A worm-brain looking for an idiot thrill...but as his gaze encountered the boy's eyes, Green realized that he was interrupting a suicide in progress.
"Where's the blade?"
"In its sheath." The boy's right hand, hanging loosely at his side, twitched away to reveal the plain black haft of a knife. The blade was lodged between the skin and muscle of his thigh, its shape clearly defined through the skin. A kitchen utility knife, from the look of it.
Green felt his skin crawl as he saw that, and looked again into those blank eyes. No, not blank...a spark of eerie fire flickered for a moment.
Quietly: "What's your name?"
The boy's fingers sensuously caressed the haft. Green watched as the blade, unheld, unassisted, slid smoothly out of its wet sheath and travelled up the boy's body to stop at his mouth. The boy began licking the smeared blood from the polished blade. No, he was licking the edge, sawing his tongue into two small bloody tongues! The knife thrust deeper into his mouth. Another moment, and it was sheathed anew, this time under the belly skin.
The mouth gargled five or six syllables, and smiled engagingly, fresh blood flowing freely over the chin, throat, collar and torso. The eyes flashed a warning. In his mind, Green heard the quiet words: Do not interfere in any way.
"Right then, I'll be on my way."
As Green drove away he heard garbled laughter.
***
This place is a thrill. It is a dim cavern of a foundry, with solid shadows cast by looming black iron hulks. Dust and debris cover everything but the roof is solid; the high windows crusted with filth but unbroken; and dark as a coal mine at night. Knife had chosen a fine theatre and gallery for our art. We prepared; we rehearsed.
A cop bothered us for a few minutes. The guy came up with a bunch of questions. Knife didn't feel like talking, so we slit my tongue. The cop went away. When daylight faded, I hung my living body from its hook, and we waited for the living darkness to descend.
The last music heard in the blackness by my mortal ears was a languid melody of wet splats and slithering plops, as warm animal scraps rained upon the cold metal scraps below. A drip-drip-drip continuo had emerged, quick, confident, its tempo and presence building to overwhelm the fading theme of a beating heart.
We completed our sculpture to my complete satisfaction. And after all this, Knife is still sharp. Keen as a razor, pure as a shard of crystal.
***
They found a slumping mess of stinking greasy bloody offal in the scrap heap on the floor. The bones had hung high above, still wearing the untouched head, hands and feet.
"Yeah, this is the same kid." Green stood before the blood-crusted skeleton, hanging now just above the floor, the thing looking almost comical, as if it wore fake rubber hands and feet...but the face, slack in death, was the same that he saw three days earlier, alive in the sunlight.
Inspector Kimmel, ignoring the corpse for the moment, cast his glance in various directions, measuring, musing, vainly trying to find a perspective on this death scene that made some kind of sense.
"You said this is a suicide. If that's the case, he did a damned thorough job of it. Tell me Green, how can someone cut all the flesh from his bones while still alive? Please tell me."
Green stood silent, visibly pale in the dim light.
"So where's this knife you said he had?"
"Not found yet."
"Describe it."
"Kitchen knife, but not one of the big ones. Black handle."
"Sharp, though."
"I watched it cut through his tongue...."
"Any sign of...other people? Accomplice? Torturer? Murderer? Whatever?"
"Nothing."
Nothing. Kimmel was reminded of a similar case in the same place, several years ago...a gruesomely slashed body was found. No clues, no weapons.... Nothing. Except for the corpse.
"I think we're spinning our wheels, Green. We have another case like this on the books, over ten years old now. Nothing but the corpse. Still unsolved...and I personally have no desire to solve it. Let's just hoist this, thing back up there, and then get the hell out of here."
***
Knife went somewhere. I'm lonely. But I'm so glad the cops appreciated our sculpture.
***
"Wow, that's a shiny knife," she said, stooping to pick it up. She bobbled it just a bit as she grasped it, and the blade drew a painless line of blood on her finger.
That was all Green could think to say. First, the teen was spotted lurking on the grounds of the abandoned foundry; second, he was stark naked and filthy; and third, when Green stepped toward him from the patrol car for a closer look, he saw the red puckered mouths of several stab wounds on the boy's begrimed skin...some freshly bleeding, some gummy and seeping, and some old and crusted over.
But the kid was just standing there, wearing nothing but a slave-collar of sturdy chain, oblivious to his wounds!
"Enjoying the day."
Yeah, right, thought Green. Standing around like Nature Boy at the beach. Well, at least he chose a deserted venue, no citizens to disturb.
He must be a strung-out junkie, a wacko tweaker, concluded Green. A worm-brain looking for an idiot thrill...but as his gaze encountered the boy's eyes, Green realized that he was interrupting a suicide in progress.
"Where's the blade?"
"In its sheath." The boy's right hand, hanging loosely at his side, twitched away to reveal the plain black haft of a knife. The blade was lodged between the skin and muscle of his thigh, its shape clearly defined through the skin. A kitchen utility knife, from the look of it.
Green felt his skin crawl as he saw that, and looked again into those blank eyes. No, not blank...a spark of eerie fire flickered for a moment.
Quietly: "What's your name?"
The boy's fingers sensuously caressed the haft. Green watched as the blade, unheld, unassisted, slid smoothly out of its wet sheath and travelled up the boy's body to stop at his mouth. The boy began licking the smeared blood from the polished blade. No, he was licking the edge, sawing his tongue into two small bloody tongues! The knife thrust deeper into his mouth. Another moment, and it was sheathed anew, this time under the belly skin.
The mouth gargled five or six syllables, and smiled engagingly, fresh blood flowing freely over the chin, throat, collar and torso. The eyes flashed a warning. In his mind, Green heard the quiet words: Do not interfere in any way.
"Right then, I'll be on my way."
As Green drove away he heard garbled laughter.
***
This place is a thrill. It is a dim cavern of a foundry, with solid shadows cast by looming black iron hulks. Dust and debris cover everything but the roof is solid; the high windows crusted with filth but unbroken; and dark as a coal mine at night. Knife had chosen a fine theatre and gallery for our art. We prepared; we rehearsed.
A cop bothered us for a few minutes. The guy came up with a bunch of questions. Knife didn't feel like talking, so we slit my tongue. The cop went away. When daylight faded, I hung my living body from its hook, and we waited for the living darkness to descend.
The last music heard in the blackness by my mortal ears was a languid melody of wet splats and slithering plops, as warm animal scraps rained upon the cold metal scraps below. A drip-drip-drip continuo had emerged, quick, confident, its tempo and presence building to overwhelm the fading theme of a beating heart.
We completed our sculpture to my complete satisfaction. And after all this, Knife is still sharp. Keen as a razor, pure as a shard of crystal.
***
They found a slumping mess of stinking greasy bloody offal in the scrap heap on the floor. The bones had hung high above, still wearing the untouched head, hands and feet.
"Yeah, this is the same kid." Green stood before the blood-crusted skeleton, hanging now just above the floor, the thing looking almost comical, as if it wore fake rubber hands and feet...but the face, slack in death, was the same that he saw three days earlier, alive in the sunlight.
Inspector Kimmel, ignoring the corpse for the moment, cast his glance in various directions, measuring, musing, vainly trying to find a perspective on this death scene that made some kind of sense.
"You said this is a suicide. If that's the case, he did a damned thorough job of it. Tell me Green, how can someone cut all the flesh from his bones while still alive? Please tell me."
Green stood silent, visibly pale in the dim light.
"So where's this knife you said he had?"
"Not found yet."
"Describe it."
"Kitchen knife, but not one of the big ones. Black handle."
"Sharp, though."
"I watched it cut through his tongue...."
"Any sign of...other people? Accomplice? Torturer? Murderer? Whatever?"
"Nothing."
Nothing. Kimmel was reminded of a similar case in the same place, several years ago...a gruesomely slashed body was found. No clues, no weapons.... Nothing. Except for the corpse.
"I think we're spinning our wheels, Green. We have another case like this on the books, over ten years old now. Nothing but the corpse. Still unsolved...and I personally have no desire to solve it. Let's just hoist this, thing back up there, and then get the hell out of here."
***
Knife went somewhere. I'm lonely. But I'm so glad the cops appreciated our sculpture.
***
"Wow, that's a shiny knife," she said, stooping to pick it up. She bobbled it just a bit as she grasped it, and the blade drew a painless line of blood on her finger.
