Last Cut

As a Child, Bryan Johnson once observed his mother cutting herself on a knife while doing dishes and asked her why she threw the knife out afterwards. Her response was that you had to, because the knife gets a "taste for blood"

When Bryan was 27, finished schooling and with a steady job, he moved into his first apartment. After school he had few possessions, many of which he donated to a salvation army type place. One thing he did have, however was a kitchen set his mother had bought him, which included a 5-piece Japanese, stainless steel knife set.

After a week or so, when Bryan was feeling hungry, he decided on soup. He had made the broth, added chicken, noodles, a few peppers and was cutting the celery with one of the knives. The TV was blaring fairly loudly and someone screamed, causing Bryan to jump and miss with the knife, making a small cut on his finger. It wasn't very deep, but enough to draw a small trickle of blood, some of which rubbed off onto the knife. His mothers warnings didn't so much as cross his mind, and he certainly didn't take heed of them. He dumped the celery into the pot, cleaned up and washed the knife and put it back.

That night, at about 2:19 he woke up with a dry throat, and quite thirsty. He pulled off his blankets, wearing no more than a pair of grey boxers and stumbled, still mostly asleep towards the kitchen. On about the first step onto the cold linoleum floor, his foot stepped down on a small puddle of soup, his foot sliding out from under him. He fell forwards, arms windmilling, one of which struck the knife, the Handel of which was sticking out over the lip of the counter. It spiraled upward, the moon briefly reflecting off its sleek surface through a window as it plunged downwards towards him. The blade, which could cut through a frozen steak, had no problem opening a gash in the side of his arm as it struck, blood starting to flow from it almost immediately. A long string of profanity piercing the night like, well- a knife- as pain shot up Bryan's arm. His eyes shot open and he jumped up, clutching his wounded limb. He darted to the bathroom, cleaning and bandaging the wound before going back into the kitchen, cleaning the knife (Which he couldn't remember when he had taken back out of the holder for the life of him) and placing it back in it's accustomed spot and going back to bed.

Later, when he got up for work, spending a few minutes to do the dishes from the previous night's meal, he felt a small tinge of pain as he was searching the bottom of the water filled sink, searching with his hand for silverware. He pulled his hand up, grasping what had done it and laughed when he saw it was the knife. It wasn't a good-hearted laugh, but rather a nervous one. He figured he had put the knife in the sink rather than the holder, and cleaned it and put it back again.

After what seemed to be an eternity of a day at work, he slumped home, feeling quite drowsy. He got in the door, put his lunchbox on the floor and removed his shirt, in need of a good cold shower. He drudged along through his apartment, seeing things but not really paying attention until he felt a flare of pain erupt from his left side, followed by the warm trickle of blood. His eyes shot open, fully aware again and moved down to the counter. There was the knife. It was held in place, blade over the counter, by a large cutting board.

After he had cleaned himself up and bandaged himself again after a cold shower, he went back out into the kitchen to the knife. He looked down at it and saw that although there was quite a fair amount blood on it, none had dripped. He leaned in closer, his breath briefly getting caught in his throat. A small stream of blood had curved into what looked almost identical to a smirk. He suddenly started to feel very nervous around this blade, but commenced washing it anyways. As the water ran from the tap while he was cleaning the silver knife, a small, fine mist of water sprayed onto the floor. It was a very small puddle, but it was enough. As Bryan shifted his weight from one leg to the other, he slipped for the second time, falling forwards bent over the counter. A burst of pain exploded in his shoulder, he looked wide eyed down at it to see the knife sticking a good two inches into him. He was now quite afraid of this object. He pulled the silver denizen out of his arm, a small spurt of blood and gore flowing out of it into the water of the sink, tainting it with a crimson hue. Bryan opened the cupboard door and threw the knife in the garbage, practically sprinting to the bathroom to patch himself up for the third time.

When he came back, he was feeling a bit calmer and a little more confident. He picked the garbage back out of the can and started to carry it away. As he got into the hall he was laughing, it was a shrill sound, something you might expect from a psychotic clown. He reached the garbage chute at the end of the hall and lifted the bag to eye level, calling it every profanity he could think of. His laughing, swearing, and breathing stopped as his eyes came across a small hole in the bag, the tattered plastic around it was dyed a deep red. At this time a scream escaped his suddenly very dry throat, he dropped the bag and started running back to his apartment. As he put the second foot he stepped inside down, an enormous burst of pain exploded in his foot. He looked down and screamed again, the six inch stainless steel blade was protruding up through the top of his foot, blood flowing steadily from around it. He kicked his leg franticly, ignoring the pain it caused. The blade flew from his foot with a horrible squishing noise and struck a wall, bouncing off it slightly and landing on the floor. He moved quickly over to it and picked it up. Pain flared in his hand. He looked down and saw his white knuckles closed tightly around the blade. He threw it wildly, the blade spinning through the air and striking the kitchen window, breaking the glass and piercing the screen. He started laughing like only one who had crossed the borders of insanity could as he watched it fall down from his building, disappearing down into am open manhole. The ground rushed up to meet him as he blacked out, his limp body out cold before it struck the ground.

If only he could of seen the trickle of blood that had shot from his hand during his madness slowly flow down his stainless steel, 5-piece knife set, a small drip of thick crimson flowing down into each of the four remaining filled knife-slots.

Leon Black