Novel & Cerita Your Words Cut Deeper Than A Knife

My voice was a knife in the night. She caught sight of it instantly, hurling one of her knives with deadly precision. The blade sang through the dark, true and fast. Then the thing bent, almost boneless, letting the steel whistle past before its clawed hand lashed out. The knife clattered against the porch, useless.

It was a carving knife. Thin. Precise. Sadistic. “Today, we carve obedience,” he said, smiling. The blade touched my thigh. Cold. And then he dragged it slow. I screamed. Not because it was deep—it wasn’t. But it was deliberate. Slow enough for every cell in my body to feel the slice, the insult, the degradation. Blood welled up immediately, trickling in warm lines down my leg as he traced every fucking letter. W. H. O. R.

Pathetic. I raise my arms, blade poised high, cold steel gleaming beneath the flickering light. I scream as I drive the blade deep into his chest, feeling it slice through flesh, muscle, and bone. I feel the brittle snap of our withered bond breaking inside me like a dry twig, echoing in my ribs. I press the blade in harder, snarling into his wild, panicked eyes, forcing him to relive every pathetic moment of his pitiful life as it bleeds out of him.

The words slithered their way into my mind, sinking hooks into my head and staying rooted. Fire raced through my blood, heating every inch of my skin like his touch was gasoline and those muttered words were the strike of the match. He pulled out the knife embedded deep within his body and said, “Mine.”

“Let us pretend that that was just a moment of weakness. It should never happen again!” God knows I am bleeding inside, my very own words cutting through my poor heart like a double-edged dagger. This is deep. This is so strong.

I felt cold when I heard those words. The blade is made using sacrifice rather than fire. The future won't be rescued until the blood of the past meets the hands of the present. The words weighed heavily on my chest as I swallowed. This was not the end of it. Not even close.

He pressed the knife more, making me wince again. "God, this hurts like a bitch. Are you crazy, Lance?" "Wrong choice of words." With that, he started cutting deeper. If I didn't stop him, I would lose four fingers, only my thumb would be cut off later because it was a little bit away from the other fingers.

“We are going to have a little conversation, and when we’re done, you are going to tell me every single thing I need to know. If you don’t…” “You are wasting your time,” he interrupted, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ll never talk.” I bent over and leaned into look at him in the eyes. “You are stressing me. You and I know that is what everyone always says. And yet, somehow, they always do.” “I still won’t talk. I’m different from the other weaklings.” I stood straight again and held up my knife, letting the edge shine as the light reflected on it. “Do you know how butchers cut open their kill?” I asked him. “I have always wondered how much joy they got and how they go about it.”

This time, there would be no room for error, no space for mercy, no possibility of survival. "I should have stabbed the knife directly into his heart," I spat, my voice dropping into a guttural, cruel register that seemed to come from somewhere deep and primal within me. "I should have twisted it until I felt the muscle stop twitching beneath my fingers. I should have carved my name into his ribs so he knew exactly who was sending him to hell." The words tasted like copper and ash on my tongue, bitter and satisfying all at once. I wanted to savor them, to roll them around in my mouth until they became a prayer, a mantra, a promise written in blood.

Her words hung in the air like a knife. —