In the top floor of an overly idolized apartment,
In room 26B.
There’s a door just beside the bed, this door leads to a kitchen and inside the kitchen, in one of the bottom lockers, the one by your left when you stand facing it, there is a knife.
This knife has a purple hilt, and a rusty metal ***** at the center of the hilt fixing the blade to the hilt. The bottom of the hilt has a few pale spots, as if its color has faded. And by the edge of the blade there are a couple scratches, from a number of poor sharpening attempts.
I reside in that room, I sleep on the bed next to the door and every night, before I sleep on that bed, I stare at the knife in the cupboard for about 2 hours. I think about the scratches on the blade, how they disfigure the glint of the steel. I think about the rusty ***** how it holds the blade and how as time passes the rust spreads and the ***** weakens.
I don’t think of how long I’ve had that knife, and in all honesty I have no recollection of how that knife came to be mine. I have no knowledge of whom it belonged to before it was mine. All I do know is the knife is here, immobile, waiting to be used.
But I am much too weak to use it. I suppose hanging would be easier. But I have no rope, my belt is fragile and my clothes of subpar quality. So all I can do is stare and wait for courage to come.
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 3:35 PM UTC
In the top floor of an overly idolized apartment,
In room 26B.
There’s a door just beside the bed, this door leads to a kitchen and inside the kitchen, in one of the bottom lockers, the one by your left when you stand facing it, there is a knife.
This knife has a purple hilt, and a rusty metal ***** at the center of the hilt fixing the blade to the hilt. The bottom of the hilt has a few pale spots, as if its color has faded. And by the edge of the blade there are a couple scratches, from a number of poor sharpening attempts.
I reside in that room, I sleep on the bed next to the door and every night, before I sleep on that bed, I stare at the knife in the cupboard for about 2 hours. I think about the scratches on the blade, how they disfigure the glint of the steel. I think about the rusty ***** how it holds the blade and how as time passes the rust spreads and the ***** weakens.
I don’t think of how long I’ve had that knife, and in all honesty I have no recollection of how that knife came to be mine. I have no knowledge of whom it belonged to before it was mine. All I do know is the knife is here, immobile, waiting to be used.
But I am much too weak to use it. I suppose hanging would be easier. But I have no rope, my belt is fragile and my clothes of subpar quality. So all I can do is stare and wait for courage to come.