Kitchen Knife

He opened his eyes.

The attic silence wrapped around him again —

but something felt off.

The kind of wrong that didn't scream.

It simply sat.

Heavy.

Patient.

The floorboards creaked —

just as they always did.

The light seeped through the wooden gaps —

gray, strained.

Dust floated in the air like ash in slow motion.

He lay on the same mattress —

thin, sunken, cold.

Its shape seemed carved into the floor now.

Or maybe he was.

He sat up.

And there it was again —

a soft, invisible pressure around his neck.

Not painful.

Not physical.

Just… present.

A memory pressing inward from nothingness.

His hand rose instinctively.

Fingers grazed the skin.

No rope.

No wound.

But he remembered.

Something.

And it flickered —

then vanished.

His eyes moved across the room.

The boxes.

The crooked lamp.

The coil of rope in the corner —

all still there.

But they felt different.

Not moved.

Not touched.

Just… aware.

As though they were watching him now,

not the other way around.

Who am I?

The thought drifted through him —

a voice without weight.

No answer came.

Of course not.

He stood.

His body moved on its own,

as if it had done this before.

Too many times.

He crossed the attic, opened the hatch.

The air beneath was still and thick.

He descended the narrow, swaying stairs.

The steps gave way beneath him,

groaning like tired lungs.

And then —

the scent.

It rose from below like a familiar lie.

Fried eggs.

Toasted bread.

The hum of the fridge filled the silence like static.

A low, constant reminder that life was still happening.

Somewhere.

He reached the bottom.

The hallway greeted him with its narrow, rib-like walls.

The door to the kitchen stood ajar,

like a half-open mouth.

He stopped.

Peered through the crack.

Faded wallpaper.

A table.

A single plate.

And then —

a voice.

Soft.

Warm.

But trembling.

— "Son, are you hungry?"

His body locked.

The words landed too precisely.

Too gently.

He'd heard them before.

He was sure of it.

Or not?

I guess I'm her son, he thought again.

But the idea felt thinner this time,

like paper soaked in water.

Ready to fall apart.

The voice was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The kind that didn't belong in a place like this.

There was a tremor in it —

not weakness,

but submission.

As if anything he asked for,

she would give.

Anything.

He stepped forward.

— "Yes," he said,

and was startled by his own voice.

It sounded clearer.

Stronger.

But hollow.

She turned.

And he saw her again.

Same figure.

Small.

Stooped.

Apron like a funeral cloth hanging off her thin frame.

Her hair —

long, dark —

tied in a messy bun,

with strands trailing down her neck like shadowy fingers.

Her face was like a painting someone started with love,

then abandoned.

Fine cracks ran through it —

not from age,

but from neglect.

Her skin was pale,

porcelain,

tinged with the faintest blue —

as if the blood beneath had long since frozen.

Dark crescents beneath her eyes,

as if carved there with a blunt knife.

And her eyes themselves —

wide, wet,

lashes trembling like moth wings caught in webbing.

Inside them:

madness.

Obedience.

A kind of broken light

that never once looked away.

The pupils were just a little too large.

And when the window light caught them —

they reflected nothing.

Just flat, glassy black.

Like the eyes of a doll long forgotten in a closet.

Her lips parted.

Soft.

Full.

Exposing teeth that were white, but imperfect —

the kind of imperfection that comes from biting too hard

on something that won't break.

She smiled.

Or tried to.

It came out crooked —

twisted.

A curl at the edge that felt more like pain than joy.

Her eyes never left him.

And he could feel something crawling under his skin.

She waited.

Not for his words.

Not for his choice.

She waited for him to do something —

anything.

Hit her.

Hug her.

Destroy her.

She was ready.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Her fingers gripped the wooden spatula —

thin, shaking.

But the grip was weak —

like she'd forgotten how to hold things.

She moved slowly.

Like a ghost

trying not to startle the living.

Every step

made no sound.

And yet the silence deepened.

— "Sit," she said,

placing the plate on the table.

Her voice was silk.

But frayed.

Torn at the seams.

She sat across from him.

Her body folding in on itself —

like a sheet of paper

crushed too many times.

She reached for her fork.

Her fingers trembled.

A piece of egg slid off and landed on her chin.

She didn't notice.

Or maybe she did.

And just… didn't care.

He sat.

Eggs.

Toast.

Butter in a little dish.

A butter knife beside it.

Silver.

Dull-edged.

Harmless.

He watched her eat —

quietly,

rhythmically.

But not naturally.

She didn't chew.

She performed.

Her eyes flicked up at him,

again and again.

Fast.

Shy.

Obedient.

And terrifying.

He picked up the toast.

Bit it.

The taste was simple.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Something pressed on his chest —

a weight he couldn't name.

I've been here before,

he thought.

Her voice.

Her words.

The food.

The air.

All of it repeated.

But how many times?

He looked at the knife.

The way it caught the window light.

His hand reached out.

Fingers curled around the handle.

And in that moment,

a thought:

What if I'm right?

He didn't know what it meant.

But his body moved anyway.

Quiet.

Fast.

He brought the knife to his neck

and drove it in just beneath the Adam's apple.

No sound escaped his lips.

Warm blood gushed.

Fast.

Certain.

Across the table,

she didn't flinch.

Her fork moved.

Mechanical.

Unchanging.

As if nothing had happened.

---

Darkness.

A melody.

"No, thank you… I'm not hungry…"

The words break.

They rasp.

They dissolve into silence.