You Are The Knife I Turn Inside Myself นิยาย & เรื่องราว

“I don’t care who you are.” The knife trembled in my hand. “I love her,” I said. The words came easier than I expected. Clear. Certain. “I knew it the moment I saw her,” I continued, my breath uneven but steady enough to carry the truth. “You’ve loved before. You know what that feels like.” The pressure didn’t ease. “If you want someone dead,” I said quietly, “then take me.” And before he could react— I turned the blade. And drove it toward my own chest.

I stared at the broken pieces of the knife beside me on the bed. It was useless against that man. But it could of been useful to me. My hand stretched, curling around the spine and brought it closer. I glanced at my wrist, then the knife and back at my wrist, a voice in the back of my head repeating the same words like a mantra. Do it. Kill. End this misery. Kill. Kill. "No!" I screamed, straightening to a sitting position and hurling it at the door. The tip of the knife dug into the wood before falling to the floor with a clink, leaving its mark.

“The clock is ticking and you are searching for the knife that can be your weapon… or use against you” The whispered inside my head is singing while I visualize every corner of the house, and listen to his footsteps. I can still hear his heavy breathing too and I know he is trying to open the back door, but he is just wasting his time opening it because I locked it from the outside. “Doo… doo… doo… The clock is ticking and you are searching for the knife that can be your weapon… or use against you” The song that I invent inside my head while my eyes are still closed waiting for the time to be over and he is dead.

"The radio man will come tomorrow. He will ask you many things. He will try to weave a net of words to catch you. But remember this knife. Remember that you have the power to cut through the fluff and show them the bone. You don't have to be the silk that everyone touches; you can be the shadow that makes the gold shine brighter." Tobi looked at the linoleum block. He had carved a single, elegant curve the shape of a closed eye, or perhaps a seed waiting to sprout. He felt the weight of the knife in his hand, no longer a weapon, but a key. He wasn't afraid of the fraying silk anymore. He realized that even as the mural faded, the story he was carving into himself was only just beginning to t

I say with determination and sit up in bed. I take out the small knife from under the pillow which I had placed there after having breakfast. I knew I would need it in the future but I did not think that I would need it this soon. This knife will free me from this painful life. This knife will end my suffering. “I will kill myself. I will not let you use me as your sex toy. I am a human and I have self-respect. You cannot tarnish my dignity by claiming me again and again. I will free myself from this life”. With these words, I stood up from the bed and put the small knife on my wrist.

How had I become this? My hand rose hesitantly, tracing the jagged skin along my cheek, sliding down to my jaw. The reflection followed my motions exactly, a twisted puppet in a cursed show. My stomach churned. “Who even are you?” I muttered, my voice laced with venom. “What the hell have I become?” I spat at the mirror. The spit hit the surface with a sickening splat, streaking down in thick defiance. I turned away sharply, grabbing the rust-eaten knife from the tabletop.

“You don't! I've given you tears and you spit in my face so now, I'm done pretending.” My heart cracked open with rage. I screamed and the knife found his side. He gasped, staggering back. Blood bloomed beneath his shirt. He stared at me like he couldn't believe I'd done it. “You will never have me,” Ism said, and this time my voice was steel. And then I turned the blade on myself. “Emilia, no!” Too late. It sank deep into my belly. My knees buckled. He caught me, as if that made any of this right. As if cradling me would undo what he'd done.

I turned it over, watching the dim light slide down the blood-red edge. “Lethal.” “Close.” “So real.” Voices provoked me in my head, making my breath hitch. My hands tightened around the hilt until my knuckles went white. Until I felt skin split under my grip. Until warm droplets slid between my fingers. I stood with trembling legs, but remained uptight staring at the wicked shine of the dagger, at the reflection of my broken face on its surface. The bitterness in my chest finally snapped. “I am not your tool,” I whispered. “I am not your entertainment.”

It became as if I was no longer in control of my own body because I suddenly slapped myself real hard. "Do you now know what it feels like to be struck, you son of a bastard! You think the world revolves around you, don't you? You think that everything needs to fall face down at your feet, don't you? You think you're meant to be up there, when in reality, you ought to be down below!" I picked up a knife and stood in front of the mirror. I couldn't understand what was happening anymore. "You might want to put down that knife."

That I really deserve this. The weight of the crown. The knife in my hand. The silence in my chest. It’s like the dream is trying to dig into me. Twist me up from the inside until I don’t remember who I was before I got here. And maybe it’s working. Until this time. This time something’s different. Because when the knife drops from my fingers, I don’t fall. I don’t cry. I breathe. Just once. And I focus on it. The inhale. The exhale.