Possible trigger warning for self harm, read with caution.
Clove loves knives.
She loves they way the fit in her palm, small and stoic and solid, as familiar as a lovers hand, the smooth curves molding to the flesh of her fingers, the swell of her thumb. She loves the way it feels like an extension of her arm, a small, extra, deadly limb on a small, deadly girl. She loves they way she can throw them, sending the blade whistling through the air to stick itself deep in her target, directly in the middle every time.
She loves the awestuck looks on peoples faces when she hits a target spot on from forty yards. She loves the way even the trainers seem astonished when she severs ropes on dummies from thirty yards. She loves the way the older kids jaws drop with well deserved admiration when she nails a practice dummy directly in the heart, the knife thrown with so much intensity that it gets a solid stick in the tough material of the dummy. She loves the looks of wonder on the younger kids faces on their first days in training, when the trainers show her off as the best. She's the best.
Most of all though. she loves what knives can do.
She loves watching the blade sink into flesh, digging through layers of skin, causing crimson blood to seep out, tainting the otherwise pale flesh, like paint on a canvas. She loves the way the blood pools on skin, slipping to collect at the elbow, the hip, the collarbones of her opponents. She loves the way the liquid, as dark and deep as pain itself, clings to the shiny blades. She cherishes it. On more than one occasion, she does it to herself, just for the pleasure of the blood, the pain. For the pleasure of watching the sharp edge press into the pale skin of her wrist, her ankle, her elbow.
She loves the way the blades glisten in the sunlight as they whistle through morning air towards a target they will surely hit. She loves the sound of knives whistling through the air as they approach the target. She loves the way they feel leaving her hand, slipping from her fingers in precisely the right way to cause pain, injury, death.
Sometimes she throws a knife just for the hell of it, implanting it in the side of her house, her bedroom walls, a rabbit that dared venture into the district. As soon as it's reached its target, she'll cock her head to the side slightly and stare at it, expressionless, as if it's the first knife she's ever thrown. Then she'll smile slightly and retrieve the weapon.
Even on her first day of training, the knives were familiar, friendly. They beckoned to her when she proved unable to wield all the other, heavier weapons. The shiny blades with serrated points, smooth handles and curved blades, dainty knives that narrowed to a sharp, deadly point. Late at night, she dreams of them. Dreams of the days she'll win the games with them.
Yes, it's true.
Clove loves knives.
Again, a super short one.
PROMPTS, PEOPLE.
I seriously need something new to write. Pllleaaaasssse?
