I with my knife

I wonder each time I see her, ever since we lost one another, if she imagines a life we might have had outside of all of this, if we could have escaped the choke hold the Guild held on the city. If we could have made a way for ourselves, her with her charms, I with my knife.

I wonder if she imagines the laughing voice of our dead friend, if she can still picture his face the way I can. I wonder if she takes to the half-breed’s bed with pleasure now, or if her eyes are as dead for him as they appear to me when we have passed one another in the halls, on the streets. I wonder if she is anything the girl I remember, or a grown woman now, a stranger to me, if I am a stranger to her, after all these years, her with her charms, I with my knife.

I wonder if I could save her, if she would let me, if what she knows now is more comforting than an unknown future of freedom. I wonder these things while I cut purses and throats for coin, for gems, for a master we both serve with a willingness and hatred mixed, her with her charms, I with my knife.

I wonder if she remembers my ageless face, my surrendered name, the way I remember her bright eyes and whispered promises the night I bled for us, the night she bled for us, both of us to keep the other safe.

Her with her charms, I with my knife.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to I with my knife

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    I never know if these things are part of something larger or if you have written them to appear that way. In the end, I don’t much care. I’ll take it.

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