It has been a long 3 months since my last post, so hello again. The past two months have been busy as hell. I'm in the midst of rushing out work, but allow me to share a piece of writing with all of you. This was written for my Creative Writing short story assignment so hopefully you would enjoy it. I will have to change my entire writing to fit the criteria of the assignment, but it feels like a waste to just delete it because this is my first fiction piece since 2012. It's titled "The Knife and Her" and here it is.
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The house was quiet. All that could be heard was the slow rhythm of a knife against a chopping board. The thumping echoed down the empty hallway. Across the entryway was a small kitchen, befitting of a newly wed couple. One could only take three steps before reaching the other side of the kitchen.
On the marble kitchen top were a number of ingredients: Onions, garlic, chicken breast, and some mushrooms. She stood in a daze. Her eyes were focused on somewhere in the distance, the motion of dicing onions operated on autopilot. Slicing and slicing and slicing. The knife was comfortable being wielded by her slender and scar-ridden hand, their synergy terrifying and wondrous. There was no denying that the two had worked together thousands of times. She knew how the knife wished to be held, and the knife knew how she wanted her ingredients cut.
A single tear rolled off her cheek, falling atop the diced onions. She was indifferent to it, as was the knife. One more tear, then another followed. The knife simply kept moving, only seeking to complete the task at hand. This was a normal occurrence, just one of her nightly routines.
She continued working in tandem with the knife. Cutting, slicing, and dicing. Both completely unaffected by the tears that were seasoning the onions. As she moved with precision and speed, her eyes remained fixed in the distance. But she knew the knife would not let her down.
True enough, as they moved on to the garlic, then the mushrooms, the knife showed no signs of letting up on the rhythm either. The knife showed no interest in what she was looking at. It simply kept cutting with the utmost precision, guiding her hands up and down. It was unclear who was in charge.
Oh how great it would be if this knife could cut more than just the tangible, she wondered. She knew that if the knife could, it would never fail her. But what was it exactly she wanted to cut? She pondered over the possibilities. Was it to snip off the red strings of fate, or to cut off this incessant throbbing in her chest that haunted her nightly? She did not have an answer. Yet, somehow she knew that if she did not cut it off, it would soon eat her up from the inside.
A gust of wind blew in through the slim crack of her window, breaking the silence of the house momentarily. She moved on to the chicken. Without instructions, the knife moved on its own.
She needed those sliced in finger-sized pieces. And the knife complied. As the pale pinkish chicken breast was being sliced, it slowly began turning into a deeper shade of pink, and eventually, crimson. It was almost as if the knife was checking up on her, testing if she was concentrating on the task at hand.
The answer was clear, her mind clouded with thoughts. Trembling, all she could think of was what happened just a few weeks ago. Even after all these years with her partner — now husband, she had not felt such pleasure before. But this was not right.
Never in her wildest imagination had she ever expected to be able to feel like that. That her body could experience such a sensation. That toe-curling, back arching, and blood pumping sensation. She started panting as she relived that experience in her head.
This was her nightly routine ever since she gave in to her temptations. Tossing and turning around in bed, awaiting her husband’s return but craving another’s embrace. Her husband only came home in the wee hours almost every night, entertaining client after client. That left her to her thoughts and their cold, empty bed. Unable to sleep, she would get up. In her nightgown, she would begin cooking.
Maybe it was to atone for the guilt she felt, but it offered her some form of salvation and a little distraction from her wild imagination. Her body would be worn out by the time she was done, and the exhaustion would lull her to sleep. But now, her body was so used to the motions, it no longer tired her out. Her mind was once again flooded with the imagery, and lust.
Finally placing the knife to rest on the table, she turned around. A beeping sound pierced through the quiet night when the induction cooker came to life. Drizzling the pan with oil, she waited for a minute before tossing the garlic and onions in. To anyone else, the sizzling aroma would have whisked them off their feet. But this was merely just another motion. She threw the mushrooms in, tossed them a little, and added the chicken breast. She seasoned it with a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a few tears.
She poured the contents out onto a white, porcelain plate and brought it out to the dining table. She dragged the chair out mindlessly. With a thump, she let her whole weight collapse against the chair. Staring mindlessly at the chicken breast, she wondered what time he would be home tonight, but it did not matter to her anymore.
The clock hanging on the wall in front of her ticked away. Seconds went by, and then minutes. A faint sound of a liquid dripping could be heard along with the ticking of the clock. Both sounds were in sync at first, but then the dripping increased its pace. Soon it was a trickle, then a constant flow.
As if the hands of the clock had begun to hypnotise her, she found herself feeling drowsier, her body and head getting heavier. With a thud, her arm went limp and slid off her body. The clock just kept on ticking. The knife, which was in the kitchen, now laid on the dining table. For once the knife was able to cut the intangible. A smile could be seen on her face. Just like the quiet and serene night, she too had found her peace. She had not known how to atone, so the knife helped her with it.
