Daggers and Cycles and I Don’t Wanna Think of a Title

(Disclaimer: This is a bit dark, once again. But a high school literature teacher would have an orgasm with the number of ways you could interpret this sad sad metaphor)

She knocks on your door. She is respectably clad. Not exactly how you’d imagine someone who prances around with a dagger to look like, but rather, like an esteemed swindler or a medical representative who’d readily fool you into thinking they’re well off. Cunning, deceiving but with a very warm smile that would make you mindlessly throw away your hard earned cash and fall into her well-rehearsed sales talk.

To match her reputable attire, she flaunts this mesmeric attitude that will, in an instant, make you feel at home in her presence. But just as you turn around, perhaps to relieve yourself in the comfort room or to grab a bag of peanuts, she brings out this knife; it’s rusty and timeworn. It doesn’t look like it could kill. At all.

It’s not sharp anyway. What’s to fear?

And besides, there’s nothing to tremble about. It’s not like you know about that dagger that hides deep in her pockets.

Perhaps you’re not the only one clueless in this story. Perhaps she thinks of her knife as harmless as well. And as ignorance is indeed nothing more than bliss on the edge of a cliff, you invest in each other. You are spellbound. And it is beyond beautiful.

Or at least, that’s what you think.

Because with each word you utter, every phrase you exchange, every day, hour, minute and second you indulge in this Dagger-girl’s company, her knife is honed, sharpened, polished until it’s ready to kill even the strongest lion in the whole of South Africa. The closer you are to the zenith of your friendship, and the deeper you fall into this pit of dependence and necessity, the sharper her little knife gets.

Time flies and you’re still entranced, hypnotized by what you thought was a great companionship. Her little dagger has turned into this sharp deadly sword that could destroy you at any given instant.

But what can you do? You know nothing about this, remember?

Stay ignorant, stay blissful.

Until.

Somewhere down the road: you feel an aching sensation down your stomach. It’s burning. It’s bleeding. You were stabbed. Your body is leaking! But she left the knife impaled into your skin and ran away like any normal swindler would after taking away all you had and all that you treasured.

And as you try your best to heal, you find the dagger in your bloody hands. You keep it in your pocket, appalled by her stab-and-run conundrum that you vowed never to let anyone else feel the way you did: stabbed, left, betrayed.

You make a new friend. For some reason, she has helped in mending your wound.

The dagger is still well kept somewhere down the linty folds of your pocket. You vowed never to bring it out; it pained you too much to even take a glance of that little pointed stick that once has penetrated your skin, your life, your friendship.

Once again, what is now your dagger, is sharpened as constantly as your friendship cultivates.

But your bond just keeps blooming,

…so rapid and all too quickly.

Until your friend is bleeding.

And you found yourself running.

And the dagger is now in her hands.

And it’s a cycle.