You Are The Knife I Turn Inside Myself 소설 & 이야기

“You gave me your memories… I’ll give you this.” I closed my eyes and pressed the flat of the blade against my chest. I pictured a small, quiet part of myself, a fragment not made of pain, or longing, or fear. Someone in peace. Someone stubborn enough to survive. My Core pulsed from my chest and a slice of it sank into the metal. The blade drank it in greedily, like it had been starved. A sharp sting shot through my ribs. “Just in case,” I whispered. “In case I don’t make it through this. In case I don’t remember. Let the next me know who I was… and who I refused to become.”

"A knife can be used to wound, yes. But it can also be used to sever bindings. It can be used to carve out a sanctuary. It depends entirely on whose hand is holding the hilt, and what they intend to do with the blade." Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, a hot, sudden pressure. "I don't want to hide anymore," I whispered, the confession tearing out of me. "I don't want to skulk in the shadows and observe other people's lives. But I miss my voice. I miss knowing how to explain the world." "Then explain our world," he answered immediately, without a single fraction of hesitation. I blinked, the tears spilling over my lashes. "What?"

Each pass of the blade against stone echoed through the quiet apartment—steady, measured, relentless. I sharpened every edge until they gleamed under the soft light. Until they were an extension of me—razor-sharp and ready. Tomorrow, they’d see exactly who I was. Not some dark horse. Not Damian Blackstone’s fleeting curiosity. I whispered the words to myself as I slid the last knife back into its sheath, voice steady against the night. “I won’t be anyone’s entertainment—not even his.” The city stretched on beyond the glass, indifferent to the promises made in the dark.

she snickered, the sound grating against the edges of my already frayed nerves. I poured two glasses of red wine, the deep ruby liquid swirling in the glasses, mirroring the turmoil inside me. As she turned to go back to the living room, my hand brushed against the cool steel of a knife resting on the countertop. For a moment, I paused, my breath hitching in my throat as a dark thought raced through my mind. I could end it by getting rid of them—the pain, the loneliness, the hatred, just like that. Trembling, I gripped the knife tightly, but deep breaths pulled me back, grounding me.

My fingers brush against something cold. Metal. I pause. Then I take it out. A small pocket knife. I stare at it. My heart is calm. Too calm. No panic. No fear. Just… emptiness. Tears keep falling, but I don’t wipe them away. I don’t care anymore. My reflection catches in the mirror. I look up. And I don’t recognize the person staring back. Pale. Broken. Gone. Is that really me? I tilt my head slightly, studying her like she’s someone else.

No one was going to miss me,I am just a burden to them. A disgrace. I stand up and wiped my tears,I slowly begun to walk to the bathroom. I went to the drawers containing my towel and there,laid a knife. A small pocket knife I always keep around for no reason. I took it and stare at the object before looking at my reflection in the mirror. I don't even recognize myself anymore. 'yes. Do it. Kill yourself, your going to die lonely, so better do it now'the voice says again. I put the knife on the counter and begun removing my dress.

He was calm in the start but as the words left his mouth, he got bitterer with his tone. “I know I didn’t come back but that’s not what it was. I had just lost half of my soul, I couldn’t… I was sad and scared and despondent and bruised in the soul. I couldn’t… I was not even in my right mind. I needed time.” She spoke with now tears in her eyes.

I grabbed the knife I used to scrape off layers of paint and plunged it forcefully into the middle of the blank canvas. The tear was like the sound of flesh being pierced. The handle trembled in my hand. I pushed one more time, with fury, with hatred, until the blade went all the way through. Part of me expected some sound to emerge from the other side. But there was only silence. I fell to my knees. My breathing hitched. My eyes fixed on the torn, violated canvas, as if that were a perfect metaphor for myself. I was torn. Violated. Empty. And that's when I understood.

I would rise from the ashes, stronger and fiercer than ever. With each passing moment, the darkness within me grew, merging with my own soul. Knife was no longer just a name, but a part of my being—a symbol of strength and resilience in the face of unimaginable loss. The forest seemed to sense this shift, the branches reaching out like dark tendrils, as if welcoming the return of their own.

"I am more awake than I ever have been. And I am disgusted by you." My mate applies pressure to the knife. He pushes it closer to me, but purposely doesn't give it enough strength to kill me. "I love you." Is all I could think of. "You only love yourself." With his nostrils flaring, and his lips pierced he pushes the blade through the surface of my skin. The pain is immeasurable.