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~ Where The Skies Are Always Black [Spesh]
Nov 21, 2011 23:10:24 GMT -5
Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on Nov 21, 2011 23:10:24 GMT -5
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A knife hangs precariously over my face when my eyes flit open.
I would have rolled over, would have sprung towards the wall and readied myself for a fight, if there were a hand connected to the knife. There usually is, but this time there is only a string. One of the kids has carefully stuck a hole through the handle of a kitchen knife and pulled a long piece of string through it, reaching all the way to the ceiling and falling twelve inches above my face. I can tell you this much; that knife wasn't there when I fell asleep, and I'm somewhat concerned as to how they did it while I was laying in my bed.
They're getting trickier.
However I want to look at it, though, this isn't so bad. The knife, that is. I mean, other than the fact that I didn't notice the situation at all when I was sleeping vulnerably, that blade could easily be in my eye right now. Which sort of raises the question:
Why am I not dead?
Maybe it's some sort of trap, and if I attempt to move it will hurtle towards my nose. I move anyways, because there's only one knife and it won't do anything but stab a hole in my sheets if it does fall.
Nothing happens. No trap, no violence. Huh.
Untangling my legs from the mess of sheets, I lift the knife up and use it to cut the piece of string. My parents' room is just down the hall, past the other rooms that house my enemies. I peek into every single room, as I always do, to make sure nobody else is awake.
They never are when I wake up; it's three o'clock in the morning.
My fingers wrap around the knife's handle, tightly at first, but when I see all the other children asleep I let it go, twirling it around in a circle by the string. The knife circles dangerously around, so I stop, realizing that if I let go of the string I could very well die by stupidity. I then notice something odd in the last room, something bizarre as the silver moonlight filters in through the window.
Three knives hang over their heads, one for each child in the room.
For one second I ponder finding some scissors and cutting their strings evenly across. I could let the knives fall straight into their eyes and through their brains. Just another accident in the middle of the night. But then I wouldn't. I'm not a killer; I'm the least dangerous of all. I just get tired of being targeted is all.
"No.. I wouldn't do that," I whisper, barely audible even in night silence. For a moment I wonder who did this and why, but then I'm not about to wake anybody up and ask.
I don't shower, comb my hair, or even change out of my pajamas; I don't dare to do any of that at home, so I go to the training center. I go there every morning. I even have a stack of clothes stashed in a spot where nobody will steal them or bother with me.
I rush down the stairs on my tiptoes, my movement free of the strut I usually accent it with when there are observing eyes. When I open up the front door, my sneakers are waiting there for me, with the socks resting inside.
I slip them on and run as far away from the house as I possibly can.
