𓊔﹒𓌹𓂃𓌺 & 𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙰 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶; he holds it as if he expects the knife to crumble in his palms like dry clay, sieve between the cracks in his joined fingers and fly off into the wind. the blade itself is graceful, the bold text impressed along the side making it even more-so in its mystery; a glimmering silver mottled with an aureate vein that spiders across it like marble, all the way to the heavy hilt. it’s clearly sharp, the tip thin as a needle’s point, though he’s yet to test it- yet to drag it flat across his thumb to feel that familiar, bittersweet sting.
he holds it up to the gleam of a nearby window, carefully appraising it further in the wavering light. 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤- though it clearly isn’t old enough to be something hesitantly biblical, his own personal 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔰, it’s still something he knows he’ll covet. though, that isn’t entirely based on the growing of his faith, unfurling, slowly but ultimately, like a chrysalis overdue–– julie gifted him a knife once, too. he has it still. he cherishes it still. he cradles it gently like this, though that did not save it from being used wickedly, from being used violently. he feels as if this knife will serve him just the same. all that to say, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞. a knife is a knife no matter how you dress it up / a knife is a knife, no matter how deep it cuts. "𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐥... 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐥. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭, 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫– 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲?"