Your Words Cut Deeper Than Any Blade Novels & Stories

Nahugot ko ang lahat ng natitirang lakas ko para sabihin ang mga salitang sasagot sa mga tanong niya. "Oo. Nagsisisi akong nakilala ko kayong lahat. Dahil kung hindi ko kayo nakilala, malamang naka upo kami ngayon at sama samang kumakain ng agahan sa simple at maliit naming bahay." I saw how she swallowed hard and stop herself to cry out all the pain that my words gave to her. And I can also feel the same pain. It's like that, my words has a two blade one is for them and the other one is for me.

Gutting. There's no answer in sight As his soul is stripped bare. Those blips of consciousness Catch me completely unaware. A wind through the weeds... And we all bleed. Tears stung my eyes as she hit a crescendo, let the note hang, stilling her fingers. A pain no one sees. To home, I will lead. And we all bleed. Oh, how I bleed.

All that was left was the silence of someone who has been stabbed so deep that even reacting would make it worse. I rest my head against the door and sob until the alcohol drags me under, until I ended up passing out while sitting out there, guarding a door that she won’t even open, clutching the wreckage of words that I can’t take back. And when morning comes, I know it will definitely be different. Because some words don’t fade. Some words stay and they also destroy. And I’ve just ended up destroying the one thing I have left to lose—her

--- 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.

“Especially when it’s scary. The world will always try to make you swing wild—anger, fear, revenge. But the moment you let it control the blade, you lose more than the cut. You lose yourself.” He takes the knife back—wipes it clean on a rag, folds it, hands it to me handle-first. “Keep it,” he says. “Not for fighting. For choosing. Every day you wake up, you get to decide what kind of cut you make in the world. Mercy or cruelty. Love or hate. Stay or run. The blade is just the tool. You’re the hand that holds it.” I take the knife. Feel its weight—light, perfect. “Papa Luca… what did you choose?”

He stood by the bedside, looking down at the withered, broken old man. He leaned in, his voice a cold whisper against the ear covered in burn scars. "Grandfather, you always said that a dull blade cuts the deepest." "So, stay alive a little longer. Don't miss a single second." "You don't get to leave until you've felt every ounce of the pain you've earned."

Next, I press the blade against my wrist and slice, the pain a welcome distraction from the ache in my heart. With each passing moment, my strength begins to wane, the world around me fading into a blur as my blood seeps into the grass below. As darkness threatens to consume me, I muster the last remnants of my fading consciousness and call out to my mates, the desperation in my voice echoing through the silent night. It's a dangerous gamble, one born out of despair and desperation, but in that moment, I have nothing left to lose. All I can do is cling to the fragile hope that they will hear my plea and come to my aid before it's too late. And he also comes too.

If this doesn’t work he will be all I have left. “On the contrary baby. Love can hurt. It can cut deeply” he says as he pierces the flesh under my lungs. “It has its ups and it has its downs” He says as he drags that clawed tip up between my breast. It slices through the robe I wear and I can feel as my breast hit the air. He drags it down sharply as he cuts away the rest of the fabric to punctuate his words. “Most of all it is all consuming. Just like me, it can eat you alive”. His last words are whispered into my ear.

Amara Pain makes you honest. My knees buckled as her blade caught me in the ribs, the edge sharp with something more than steel. It sliced through skin and memory. I gasped, vision doubling for a second. The blood running down my side felt colder than it should’ve. Fracture-blades didn’t just cut the body. They cut the soul. She smirked as I staggered. “You thought love would shield you?” “No,” I panted, straightening. “I thought I didn’t need to be shielded anymore.”

I’m not sure when I send the blade flying, but in one second my hand is empty. I vaguely hear the sound of metal cutting through the air. In the next second, It slices through candlelight, haze and history. Then— Impact. Not the clean, hollow plunge I rehearsed a hundred times in my head. There’s resistance. A sickening scrape. Metal meeting flesh, then bone. A sharp, strangled inhale. The blade does not sink where it should.