Drip, drip, drip.
Oh, however did this paint get on my knife? Will it stain?
I touch it, and find that it seems more adhesive than paint. Red paint does attract to itself and pull until it breaks, does it? No no, this is the liquid that comes out from under people's skin.
Yes, blood.
How is blood on my knife?
I see my reflection finally in the steel of the knife, and it is on my face, too. What gorgeous paint blood would make, hm?
I smile at the thought. Maybe one day I'll paint a picture with blood. Sunflowers. And I will give it to Ivan.
But wait, who's blood is on the knife! ?
Is it my own! ?
I shriek, then close my eyes. Pain. Yes, pain is often associated with blood. Yet there is no pain on my body.
Who dare put blood on my knife! ? Who dare soil the long and marvelous knife that I had found in Russia's cabinet, and why! How did they get it in my hand without my knowing! How did they take it out at first! Maybe- Maybe it's a different knife. Yes.
I stored the first one somewhere on my person, that's it. I search. I cannot find it. It is not in my sash nor my sleeve, nor the ruffles of skirt.
So how then did this new knife get in my hand? I look around the room for the suspect.
In the corner. There! It is you! You had gotten too close to my dear Ivan. My dear, sweet Ivan. You, with the eyes glazed over and mouth open as if on hinges, paint seeping from your chest and staining your shirt. You are mocking me aren't you! ?
"Aren't you! ?"
Is that my own voice, shrieking? I do not remember speaking. That echo. Who's voice? Yours? Are you echoing yourself? Stop. Stop at once!
…
Thank you.
I tenderly clean the knife on my apron. You stabbed yourself, didn't you? You stabbed yourself, and your ghost put it in my hand to make me believe I was painting with knives! Ridiculous, one cannot paint with knives. No way. No way I have killed this person. I am simply a little girl. And you are the victim. It is what you get for being so close to my brother, my love, my everything. I smile just a little. Maybe I shall carry this knife with me everywhere. Maybe two.
Ha! Maybe three in case I lose one.
If it keeps people away from my Ivan.
If it helps me get closer to my Ivan.
If it makes everyone's paint stain their clothes. Everyone in the world, so I am alone with my dearest Ivan, I shall be happy. He shall be happy. We will be happy.
Ivan. Yes, we will be happy.
Maybe I'll start on his painting now. I glance at your body and a wicked smile passes on my face. Your paint is a perfect color for the lighter tones. Or maybe if I layer it, the darker tones.