She lunged forward; I could see the clearness in her eyes, the determination, and I knew that I had lost. It stung. A moment earlier, my goal had been to do exactly what she was doing now. It really had, and I am not ashamed of that. My only shame is that I did not do it, and she is. I knew that she did not have a knife. I used knives; she did not. So as the sharpness pierced my chest and pain spread through the core of my body, I realized what she did have: the fork.
The fork was our friendship, a sharp thing that did not look deadly on the surface. It was only when one looked deeper, when she twisted her mind around the possibilities, that she realized how lethal it could be. And so it was. It was foolish of me to forget about the fork…. but I had thrown it away; we had drawn the line, and we had gladly stayed behind it. The fork was a small thing. Small! So small, that I could throw it away, as easily as my knives… the ones designed for killing, the ones that were not friendships or people. Just death. That's all they were, and that's all there was for me, but not from a knife, from a fork.So apt. So small. So -
If love can kill, hatred can save... but in the end, it does not.