Friday, 5 October 2012

Flashfiction Friday #07: Silver Knife

The silver knife lies on the table between us, the cold, sharp elephant in the room. It's clean - shining, even - but there is a tension in the room and it's clear it won't stay that way for long. The moonlight breaks through the window in dashes, darting between the leaves that obscure the window, lighting his face or mine or casting strange shapes across the walls.

The room is dark. I can barely see him, but I know how his face looks. It's calm. Calmer than mine must be, calmer than I feel. His breathing is even, steady. Calm. A hint of a smile, maybe, daring me to do it. Daring me to snatch the knife and use it before he can use it against me. His dark eyes like big, black marbles. They're glassy most of the time, like he isn't really there, like he isn't really seeing me. Honestly, it scares me a little when he does see me.

He moves and I flinch, body tensed and ready to reach for the knife. He's brushing his hair back. A casual movement, one that happens every day. But I react. He smiles. I can see the light bouncing off the knife and catching on his teeth. He knows I'm rattled. He's enjoying this. He should, he engineered it. He brought us here. He made it so we would never end up anywhere else.

I shiver. Only he knows how this is going to end. It's a game and he's several moves ahead of me. All I can do now is wait. I stare at the knife, ready to grab it, and I wait.



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