“You stabbed me.”
sentence starters: currently accepting.tw: mentions of blood, stabbing.
the dishonest always run. with them, they take the existence of fraud. on their hands are never blood, nor do they taste the copper on their tongue; curdling, warm, thinning and slowly thickening. they find a house suitable for their work, a home that they can confide in completely, and sleep as though god only exists in their business dealings. they prove themselves of their scheme. how they win with unprincipled control (seizing change in direction; their motives begin to speak for another, actionize one’s work, carefully inhabit a mind that no longer thinks for one). they do it well. they are trained in the art of deceit, and proudly, do they demonstrate their mastery. on their skin is an influence of machiavelli, never shrewd, or by coincidence. they know this well.
in his arms, is a man, harmed. he must’ve thought an ill-fated victory would come his way. the rest of the world is unforgiving when one lives a life of double-dealing. to every evil, there is another that wills to destroy the same evil. he had already been wounded with the drawing of the stainless dagger. feeling the weight of the latter, he gradually diminishes in his arms.
“you stabbed me.”
a sad smile finds the vice’s lips. it’s a smile that opposes the quality of madness; there is little humanity to the expression of his face. the virtue of deep misery, stricken by the man’s misfortune. in another universe, a parallel time, this wouldn’t have to be a part of who he defines himself as. he helps lower the man on his knees, supporting him. vice wishes to alleviate the sharpness in his abdomen. closely, to the man’s ear, he speaks. his tone is awful, amoral. he is unconcerned to what follows next— the deed has been done, he feels the blood solidify underneath his nails, and the world still is on its axis.
“to you, this should be more than pain and blood loss,” he says, quietly. the dagger is withdrawing. “this is the pain of your deception.”
he smiles less, and the knife is wrenched by a sharp, sudden movement. he lies on the pavement, mutilated. his shallow breathing meets the walls.
”this is your punishment.”
