Novel & Cerita Your Words Cut Deeper Than A Knife

If you just get that box with your cutting utensils. I'm not cutting again. 'Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut...' I'm not cutting. 'Of course not, you're you're coward!' I don't wanna live anymore.

Most of the times when I am in a bad mood and I talk, I spit out rubbish knowing fully well it will only worsen my condition. I have never really understood why people used to cut. It doesn't make sense to me at all when I start to imagine a human being sitting all alone in a dark corner, crying, holding a knife by his or her side and shredding his or her skin with the knife. I guess it feels good to cut sometimes. It takes away the pain you feel inside of you immediately your blood starts flowing away from your body. I guess it makes you to become more aware of how useless you are to the society you find yourself in.

After‌ eve‌r⁠ything that hap‍p⁠ened tonight,‍ afte‍r the w‍ords we threw at⁠ each othe‍r‌ like kn‌ives, it makes sense that she would run t‌o the only place she⁠ feels sa⁠fe but knowi‍ng that do‍es not ma‍ke⁠ it hurt a⁠ny less. ⁠It lands like a blow straigh‍t to‌ the chest. She does not want to be near m⁠e, If her‌ words earlier⁠ did n‌ot make it painfully⁠ clear, t⁠his does. Still, I do not leav⁠e.

Final. I think that was the moment something inside my soul actually split open. Not just because the words were crude and intentionally cruel. But because he meant them. Every single one. I forgot how to breathe. For one second the world narrowed to the space between his mouth and my ears, and the way his face doesn’t even flinch as he says it. As if he’s discussing the weather. As if he hasn’t just hollowed me out. I wanted to scream, to pound my fists against his chest. Make him feel my pain until he understood that his words were weapons and he was killing me with every hurtful syllable.

“You think that idle gossip is the same as weaponry?” “You’d be surprised.” I stepped back, avoiding a strike aimed at my abdomen. “We don’t use weapons, but words. And if you ask me, that kind of backstabbing can be just as brutal.”

--- And as the silence returned— As the distance between them settled into something real— As truth replaced what connection once was— One final truth emerged: --- The deepest cuts are not made by enemies— --- But by the ones who know exactly what to say… --- And choose to say it anyway.

"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.

A cut I had just tended to. Her words, however, did not touch me. They did not stir any flicker of pity, any spark of remorse. My mind, cold and sharp, dismissed them instantly. Her hurt was insignificant. It was a minor inconvenience, a fleeting discomfort compared to the gnawing, endless torment of my own existence, compared to the curse that clung to me like a shroud, slowly, relentlessly consuming me from the inside out. Her pain was a whisper, mine was a scream.

My heart ached, feeling betrayed like a knife twisting in my chest. "Why, Marelva?" I asked her miserably, clutching my chest as the pain became almost unbearable. "Why not?" she responded insensitively, using the same harsh words as on that one terrible afternoon, piercing my soul. The callousness in her tone echoed in my mind, each word a dagger. It felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath me, and again, I was free-falling into a void of despair...

Kill them" They shoved the knife into my hand, its cold, unforgiving weight settled into my little trembling fingers. Tears blurred my vision, but I felt their eyes on me- waiting, daring me to hesitate. I looked down at the knife, the blade gleaming, and felt a sick, twisting sensation in my stomach. My body was shaking, but the grip on my shoulder was firm, urging me forward. As my hand moved, as the blade found its mark again and again, a quiet scream built inside me, swelling with each tear shed.