A Knife's Tale (ONC 2021)

Chapter Thirteen

I open the eyes of this new body, which I refuse to claim as my own. The spirits are no longer visible, but I hope they aren't too upset with what happened and can move on. Part of me feels a little guilty that they couldn't get their chance to destroy him.

But, I know better than anyone that being stuck inside a knife for several centuries is a rather terrible fate.

Lawrence's mouth tastes of mint, but I suppose it's better than tasting blood and dirt all the time. The drug has made his right arm numbed, and I can barely move it. His stomach is churning bile violently for whatever reason, and his tear ducts feel drier than sandpaper.

It still doesn't stop me from collapsing to the ground and sobbing like a fool.

The body I'd longed for, for the last two hundred years is finally mine. I shouldn't be picky, but being forced to occupy the bones of a man that I hate to the bone isn't one of the best feelings. I'm grateful for the chance to live as a human again, and I'll have the chance of being buried underground when my due time is up. But I'd rather possess anybody other than Lawrence.

I lift his left arm up and stare at it. Moving freely really feels fantastic. No longer will I have to be at the mercy of my owner's determination of when and where I'm allowed to move. I swing them around and slap myself in the face, pretending that I'm smacking Lawrence, and it's so incredibly satisfying to feel like I've actually done something.

A quiet wheeze from the floor reminds me that Guinevere's still here, still alive. Her face is pale, the knife is still lodged in her chest, and she'd still chained up. The combination of the blood loss and the infection can't possibly be good for her.

But I don't know how to help her. Lawrence is the doctor here, and I've watched more of his malpractices than his treatments in my time here.

Guinevere smiles and coughs. "We won. I know you were having thoughts of killing Lawrence, but that's never the answer. With this spell, we've taken care of Lawrence and gotten you a body at the same time. Go out there and live, Victor."

I want to lift her up and hold her, but I can't disturb her wound. I settle for grasping on to her shaking hand, carefully avoiding the swollen infection. Her skin is just as soft as I'd always imagined it to be. But it's cold. Far colder than I thought she'd feel.

After struggling for a moment trying to remember how to verbalize sound, I stutter out, "I don't want to get out of here if you're not coming with me."

"Don't worry about me. But, could you get this knife out? His cursing and whining and complaining is grinding my nerves."

It seems it's the same as before. Only Guinevere can hear what the knife says, whether that knife is me or Lawrence. I grip on to his handle and try to gently pull him out, but my hand slips and cuts her. "Sorry about that. I'm not used to having hands."

I take a deep breath. This is Guinevere here. I can't slice her any more than this. After wiping the tears from Lawrence's puffy and swollen eyes, I take hold of my former body again and pull up.

The knife comes out, yet the bleeding grows worse. I jostle around in Lawrence's pockets and I fish out the keys and some of his balms. Though I have no clue which balm does what, and Lawrence doesn't label things, I slather a bit on her wound, hoping for the best.

I know it won't work—Lawrence usually stitches before applying medications, and I don't have the slightest clue how to do that. But I can't very well do nothing and let Guinevere bleed to death.

On the surface, the wound looks better, but deep down, she's still ripped and torn. With her external bleeding stabilized, I gently turn her around just enough that I can unlock the shackles.

"If you're going to die, you ought to die free."

I sit on the floor as close as I can get to her. Her eyes are shut, and her words have stopped, but the sound of her breathing comforts me. It's perhaps a bit impetuous of me, but I run Lawrence's fingers through her hair, lightly detangling it as I go.

After a while, I play with the blade in my hand, contemplating what I should do with him. My first thought was to close him into a jar of acid, seal him in a metal case, and bury him underground. But he doesn't deserve the respect of a burial. For doing what he did to Guinevere, he deserves to be thrown into an active volcano. Estrella never tried that one with me—perhaps it'll actually lead to the cursed knife's destruction.

Lawrence's eyes begin to feel heavy, and it's then that I realize I hadn't had a single moment of sleep since I'd turned into a knife. I'd been in a constant state of awareness, and the knife body had no physiological need for rest. No matter how dull things were, or if I were stuck in a sheath, bag, or knife block, sleep would never come.

I've done what I can for Guinevere. Her serene expression tells me she's proud of what she's done, and that she's ready to embrace the beyond. She's had a tough life and has put up with far more than any young lady ought to bear with, and I suppose death is easier than what she's been through so far.

It's not long before I drift off as well, and the sweet seclusion of much needed unconsciousness rips me away from my time with Guinevere.