The Knife

He stared at the knife on the table. Its blade was so shiny, so graceful. He could see his reflection in its silver surface.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said a voice, if it could actually be thought of as an utterance of speech. The Thought, for that it was, came suddenly and unexpectedly, like an arrow from an unseen archer.

He admitted to himself that it did have a certain simple beauty. “But more than beautiful,” the Thought continued, “And more than just for practical kitchen use. It can make you powerful, like a sword wielded with skill.”

Laughing to himself, he considered how ridiculous it was to compare the tiny knife to a majestic sword.

“Yes, but it can still cut.” The knife seemed, for a moment to turn red as the Thought continued. “It is easy to conceal. Yet it is powerful.”

The red color spread quickly from the knife to drench everything in the room as though the light itself had turned crimson. “They won’t expect it. They won’t think you’ll do it.” For a fraction of a second, he pondered the images that flowed through his mind in a furious rush.

“They won’t expect it,” the Thought came again. “You rule their fate.”

As though in answer to what the Thought was proposing, a sick and sinking feeling spread through him as he realized what he had just considered. He quickly dropped the imaginary knife he had been holding and the red light vanished. Sickened with himself he walked away, leaving the tiny kitchen knife where it lay.

Unseen, the archer retreated.