Knife, Blood, and Bone
By Psycho Elf Goldfish Cracker
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DISCLAIMER: I don't own Lord of the Rings, which means that I'm not JRR Tolkien, which means I'm not dead, because if I did own LotR, then that would mean I was JRR Tolkien and if I were JRR Tolkien I would be dead, but since I'm here writing this fanfic that means I'm not dead which means I'm not JRR Tolkien which means I don't own LotR. Got it? Good, because I don't either.
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The knife. It brings back so many memories, all painful. How I loathe that silver bladed knife with the black handle. Because of it, because of this knife, I can no longer live in peace.
I bring the blade to my throat, pausing once to think if this is really right. But it is, oh it is. No one can fully understand.
I slash the knife across my own throat. Crimson blood spatters the floor, my hands, and the knife. Never again will I have to look upon this knife, the source of all my pain, all my suffering, my inner turmoil. Because of this knife, I had to die.
Pain rips through my body, but I ignore it and slash my wrists too. To make death come quicker. It is more than I deserve.
I fall to the ground, vision blurry, pain overcoming me… I throw the knife as far away as I can. Not far enough. The only thing I can do is turn my head. I will never have to see it again.
How was I to know that both the knife and the memory of what I did were to haunt me—even in death?
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It still haunts me. The knife is in every memory I hold, every dream. This must truly be what Hell is like.
And the memory of what I did. To my friends, family, and enemies. I am overcome with guilt and something else—the lust to kill. Now more than ever I regret my suicidal actions. Now more than ever I regret that I cannot hole the knife again, feel the smoothness of its hilt, the sharpness of its blade.
Now more than ever I regret that I cannot kill again.
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Please review. Positive reviews boost my self-esteem, and flames are used to cook my dinner.
~Psycho Elf Goldfish Cracker, June 8th, 2002