I was not made for this. I was not made to slip over skin, in between, then inside. I was not meant to taste the bite of blood, fresh and warm, deep within the heart itself, or the arm, stomach, thigh.

I remember before. I remember my creator. The care and love he put into me. With every swing of the hammer, he beat into me, “you are not a weapon,” and “you do not destroy.” He engraved into me his seal, marking me as a tool, then he shined me up and put me in a case. A beautiful display of a creation made to assist. That was the time when I was proud of what I was as opposed to the disgust I feel now.

I remember the day that clammy hand came into the shop. I remember what it felt like when my creator took me out of my case and placed me into that clammy hand. I did not feel like a tool in it. But how could he have known what that hand would do? I suppose that’s the danger of being a creator. Your intentions mean nothing once what you’ve made is at the world’s disposal.

I, of all the sharp edges and blunt surfaces at his disposal, was his favourite. Always sheathed at his hip, then slipped out in that clammy hand, shaking with anticipation and excitement. After every kill he wipes me on their clothes, forcing them to clean the mess he has made of them, while I bear the weight of their lives dripping off my blade. I skin, and pierce. I cut deep, too deep to be mended. I am a weapon used to snatch away the lives of those I do not know, but I have felt. I feel their pulses and breaths. I feel the rumble of their screams as I slide over their surface over and over and over and over and over, pain feeding pain to create pain. I am no tool.

I am cleaned and polished, for my only use is to open and dismantle. He takes me out and cleans off any lasting specks of blood. He sharpens me and puts me under his pillow, where he can be close to the death that lingers on me. That is the part I hated the most. Knowing that after every kill, he will make sure I am in shape to do it again and again. No rust, or dulling. He can have every confidence that when my tip hits bone, I will not break, but drive in, shallow, but steadfast.

Tonight was no different. The sheath in which I am placed does not shield me from what happens next. He grabs my pommel, brandishing me like a prize. All I can do is plunge into her chest with crushing force, hilt bruising supple skin.

But tonight was different. That clammy hand does not rip me out in a crazed rampage for more blood as he usually does. No, I stay stuck in the warmth of the chest that I am splitting open. Keeping the blood from rushing out. This, this I will do, stay where I am not meant to be to try and right the wrongs done on my behalf.

And when a hand finds my pommel again and begins to pull, it is the first time that I have wished to stay lodged within a body. It is only when I have been fully separated from her flesh that I notice it is not the clammy hand I have become so familiar with. I do not feel skin, but plastic. A hand that is gloved. A hand that is gentle. I am placed in a bag and taken away. Handled time after time until I find a clean bag and a box with a lid. I never feel that clammy hand again, or the hand of any other. Here in the dark, I am nothing, I can do no harm or good. I cannot be used for anyone’s purpose. Here I might finally rest outside the reach of Man, who would use me for their own bidding, to further an agenda that is not mine.

Here I might be what I was meant to be, a tool, something that rusts away and is forgotten. Replaced. Recreated in a better image.

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Graphic by Forrester Toews