The Slice of a Blade
Trembling with giddiness and feverish with anticipation, I wrap my fingers around the drawer handle. The metal is cool to my touch. The drawer glides open. An army of razor edged stainless steel lies before me. Smallest paring knives on the left up to the sleek chef’s knife and the king of the drawer – the butcher knife - on the right. My fingers hover over the butcher knife’s handle. No, tonight is not the night for you. Must restrain myself.
I grasp the 30 cm French-style chef’s knife’s handle and lift it. Honed and sharpened to exquisite exactness, it is not heavy, but well-balanced and rests in my palm with my fingers curled around the ebony black grip. Experimentation has taught me a longer blade will allow a longer single stroke. A longer single slice.
Longer.
Single.
Slice.
No more beautiful words exist.
Longer.
Single.
Slice.
I close my eyes and picture it sliding – s-l-o-w-l-y t-h-r-o-u-g-h. Perfection.
Casting a critical gaze over the blade, I check for the slightest of imperfections which would dull the edge therefore marring sharpness and the moment. A ray of light reflects off the sleek steel. Memories flit through my mind of this knife’s edge effortlessly slipping through it’s prey. It is the perfect choice. The event will be sublime.
I rip the knife through the air, imagining the smooth gashes through It. My heart pulses in my chest. I spin and slash, spin and slash, spin and slash. A high giggle bursts from my lips. Such joy.
Stop.
Restraint.
Respect the moment.
Respect the act.
Lowering my head, I close my eyes. A small bow to the performance that is about to begin. I lift the knife, gripping with both hands. Holding it before me, I press a small kiss on the bolster. A homage to the beauty of this piece.
I glance back at It. Lying on the table, waiting. Waiting for it’s moment to become the star of my performance. A concerto of cutting, slashing and gouging. Screams would enhance the decadence of the moment. But the walls are thin. Nosey ears listen.
I must remain calm. Savour the moment. That first slice. A shiver slithers down my spine. I inhale, close my eyes and revel in the thrill of anticipation. I pause. Forcing myself to wait. To enjoy. Don’t rush. Ease into each action. Savour the sensations. Writhe in the bliss this act will give.
The moment has come. I step closer to It then lift the blade to my left and in one swift move slash across. The sensation of the knife ripping through It filters up through my handle to my arm and to my brain. A jolt of dopamine is released. Strength – confidence – joy – lust - power - surge through me. I release the knife from where it lays buried in It - lift and slash again.
And again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
It lays gutted. Open and exposed. I reach inside and grab at the entrails. With wild abandon, I rip out handfuls. Grab. Rip. Toss. Grab. Rip. Toss. Grabrip. Toss. Grabriptoss. Grabriptoss. Grabriptoss. Grabriptoss.
Sweat drips down my cheek. Loud gasps fill the void between the heavings of my chest.
The entrails drip from my fingers, the chair, the table and the edges of It.
It is beautiful. A masterpiece. My masterpiece.
It is so perfect.
It is perfection.
Trembles ripple through me. They build. The room sways. Hysterical laughing erupts.
With reverence, I place the blade on a towel, knowing it will be lovingly cleaned after It has been properly looked after.
I turn, once more to look at my masterpiece. Tears of joy stream down my cheeks at the beauty. I am struck numb by it. I know not how long I will stay here gazing at It. I want this moment never to end.
But it must.
The freezer lid drops with a solid thud. Orgasmic relief floods through me. Another carving. A smile hints at the corner of my mouth as I walk back upstairs. No one knows. No one suspects.
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