Novel & Cerita The Twist Of A Knife

She snarled and charged, flipping over a crate with brutal grace — landing so close I felt the rush of her movement. Steel glinted — a combat knife, silver and swift. She slashed at me — I blocked with my forearm, teeth gritted as pain shot up my skin. She swung again — the knife grazed my ribs. Her strength was monstrous, fueled by devotion to the devil I called father. We wrestled — her breath icy on my ear. “You’re just like Isabella,” she hissed. “Soft. Fragile.” I slammed my forehead into her nose — cartilage crunching.

“No silly girl. The rose. He make one smell like him.’ I looked into the bouquet, ‘uhh Akira, there’s too many to distinguish..’ as I sniff around ‘ah, found it.’ And pulled the one rose that has his scent on it. I placed it under my nose, and he scent amazingly made me relax. It actually calmed my nerves. “Aww boo ful! I want!” A’Lena tells me. “Ok. Let me cut the thorns off so you don’t hurt yourself. K?” And she nods her head.

But what she didn’t know was that I could see right through her. “Liar!” I growled, every muscle in my face twitching with fury. I pulled out my favorite torture weapon from my pocket: the tri-edged knife. A wound from this knife was almost impossible to heal because of how it was shaped. Her eyes widened in horror when I twirled the knife between my fingers. “I am sure you know what this is, and what it does,” I said menacingly. I took a step closer to her and leaned in. Before I could say or do anything, she let out a sharp, piercing scream.

She reached for it, but stopped cold when she saw Tang pull out a knife from under his jacket. It was all black, sharp as hell, and definitely not made for peeling peaches. He twirled it once between his fingers, then leaned back with a grin. "So… who's ready for party tricks?" Yvonne's eyes widened. "Tang, seriously? What is wrong with you?" She clutched her chest, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Don't worry, Yvonne. I'm just bored," Tang said, flashing a brilliant smile as he toyed with the blade.

But he won’t because he’s not interested in anyone except himself. 'That is his image if he will keep his mouth shut,' Maxine agreed with his own idea with a nod. Instead of calling him, she crossed her arms and continued to watch from the side. Dwight gripped a double-edge blade with his dominant hand. With the handle pointing away from his body, he grasped the tip of the knife so the tip of his thumb is one side of the blade while the tips of his fingers, except the pinky, are on the side; thereby pinching it without pressing against the sharpened edge.

Interesting. I kneel beside the trembling body, grab the handle of my knife and plunge it into his stomach. After the first cry of pain, I twist the knife and whisper, "The less you breathe, the more I like you."

I said as I twisted the knife in his guts and he gasped, "I can feel your blood seeping between my fingers and I gotta admit, it does feel better." "Should I remind you now why I am doing this?" I asked before I pulled the knife away, my hand held into his arm, keeping him standing as I drove it again through his skin, "This is for hurting him." I said, I twisted the knife and he groaned in pain, "This is for telling me that he died." I twisted it again, anger and resentment burned through my blood, "This is for making me hurt him." My jaw clenched and I couldn't bit back the bitterness that left my words, "This is for raping my mother...For doing it right in front of him.."

One man down for me. The one with a ball-like stomach brought out a jack-knife. He throw it on his other hand then back to the other. He repeatedly did it while walking closer to me. He pointed the knife and lunged at me. I stepped backwards to evade his attack. I remained attentive watching his every move and waited for the perfect time to counter his attack. He slashed straight at me again. I inclined to the side and avoided it. I grabbed his wrist, docked under his arm, and twisted his hand behind him. He screamed but I didn’t stop twisting not until he dropped the knife.

I twisted on instinct, narrowly avoiding its strike, and flung my blade in a desperate arc, hoping to sever it before it could wrap itself around me. The blade cut cleanly through. For half a second, I thought it worked. But cutting it didn’t help. The severed segments didn’t lie still; they writhed and twisted like melted clay, reshaping themselves. In an instant, the sticky limbs coiled around me, clinging tight and pulling me off balance.

She didn’t expect it perhaps. I drew closer to her, and gave her the torch. Then, I bent down a little for her to fall on my arms. She did. I lifted her with quite an amount of strength. Her weight was significant. She held the torchlight with her right hand, and her left hand was around my neck. Her left titty pressed against my chest. It was pleasantly soft. The feeling from that friction was awesome, but I didn’t allow it to interrupt my concentration. The current was turbulent, and the ground was slippery so loosing my concentration would result in something unimaginably bad.