There’s a simplicity to the act of stabbing, a primal intimacy that no other method can replicate. The thought lingers like a low hum in the back of my mind, growing louder when I picture their body, a canvas, soft and unguarded, begging for the sharp kiss of a blade.
I think of the moment the knife breaks the surface, that split second where resistance gives way to compliance. The skin would yield like silk, parting with a sound too soft for the violence it heralds. Warmth would spill forth, sticky and red, pooling between my fingers like some grotesque communion. Their blood, rich, metallic, and unending, would soak into everything, as if desperate to leave their dying body and cling to me instead.
I imagine their eyes, wide and uncomprehending, as they feel the blade twist. That’s the key, isn’t it? The twist. It isn’t enough to pierce, you have to let them feel the tearing inside, the chaos of organs rupturing in slow motion. Their breath would hitch, a wet gasp escaping their lips as they realise they can’t scream, can’t beg, can’t do anything but stare into the abyss I’ve opened inside them.
And it wouldn’t be one stab, no. Once is a statement, but repetition, that’s devotion. Each thrust would be deliberate, purposeful. The rhythm of it would be intoxicating, my heartbeat aligning with the rise and fall of the knife as it plunges deeper, again and again, until their body is no longer theirs, no longer a person but an object, hollowed out and empty.
I think of the mess it would leave. Blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, splattering the walls like macabre art. The sound of their body hitting the ground, lifeless and heavy, would be deafening in the silence that follows. It’s in that silence I’d feel most alive, my breathing steady while theirs ceases entirely.
It’s not hatred that drives these thoughts. It’s not even anger. It’s the allure of control, of holding someone’s life in my hands and carving it away piece by piece. A knife is an extension of the hand, and with it, I could write a story on their flesh that no one else could ever erase.
And in that final moment, as the blade rests still, buried to its hilt, I wonder who I would be, me, or the echo of what I’ve done?
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