Third person Thursday: Man With a Knife

The man just stared down for awhile before he produced a knife.  It had been ready at his side from the time he had first decided he would actually commit to doing this.  Now the time had come to employ it.



The commitment itself had sprung from nowhere.  A normally mild mannered, unassuming man, he was not the sort to make rash decisions.  But when pushed, he found that even he could be driven to such barbaric, overtly masculine behavior.

And so it was that he now found himself at the point of no return.  Before him lie his victim.  He saw only a piece of meat and was determined to finish what he had come here to do.

He began, exhilarated.  Using the serrated edge of his chosen weapon to slice away, he furiously separated chucks of flesh from one another.  He even paused at one point to admire the tool he had chosen, turning it over in his hand before diving back into his work.

But over time, his nerves began to wear away.  His arm ached.  His movements slowed.  The steely resolve he began with had worn away.  What lie before him now was torn apart and grizzled.  It disgusted him to look at it and he found himself choking on his own stomach acid.

He turned from the gruesome creation of his doing, took a somber breath and resumed.  It was far too late to change things now.  He had made this bed and he would lie in it.

His hands worked quickly again.  He stabbed.  He sawed.  He pulled and ripped.

Finally, there was nothing left to dispose of and as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"Nice work," said the waiter as he lifted the now empty plate.  "We have to take your picture for the wall."

"Thanks," the man responded and tried to smile as his friends around the table congratulated him.

"I'm not sure you'll feel up to it with a six pound steak in your belly," continued the waiter, "but perhaps I could interest you in dessert."