Dulling the pain

Misplaced.

Honestly, an irregular thing for me. I am an instrument of death. An artist of torture. My handle was crafted for my owner to never lose grip, my blade usually gets sharpened every day. I lay abandoned on the cold floor of a basement. Tossed to the side without any second thought in my opinion. This type of betrayal, I can only dream of giving the same treatment to my owner as he had done to his endless victims. Stabbings, quick slashing, shallow cuts, even punches with my handle. The glorious job of being a serial killer’s murder weapon.

The sad tale of my misplacement, I really hate to recall. I remember being in the pocket of my owner, anticipation running through both of us. I suspected that my owner had already picked his prey, he never discriminated. He just loved the act itself. He would always visit the same park; I could hear the birds caw just over us. It was night, as it always is when we hunt, and not too many people around. Just how we liked it. His hand patted me, as if to ensure I was still with him. It was also my signal that the time of our butchering was almost here. I could hear wind, a muffled scream and time seemed to quicken as I waited to be brought out. I knew it was time once I was whipped out of his pocket, a sharp grip around me and slash. My blade is colored with crimson blood. My owner’s laugh echoes throughout the basement.

Stab, stab, stab, stab.

Our canvas was complete. My owner wiped the blood off my blade and that’s when everything went wrong. A loud bang, and I assume the police stormed into the basement. Instantly I was dropped, my owner taken, and I was bagged as evidence.

So now I am packed and processed, and then bagged again. Put into a box with all other kinds of evidence. It seems like I was put into a box that was mislabeled, I ended up in a dusty corner of the police station’s basement floor. Alone.

And so, this is how my tale must end, and how I crave to be reunited with my owner. To go back to the simpler days of hunting and catching our prey. My feelings can’t be anything but hurt. I thought he was more careful than that. It’s so bothersome how he just let us get caught. Now and into forever, I don’t think I will ever get to feel the enjoyment of stabbing prey. I am no longer a weapon, just a knife. A common tool stored away where now no one can find me. Deserted, betrayed, and never to be thought of ever again. My purpose has been taken from me; I can only wish that I could be whisked away by death.

But that can’t be. Because I lay here in a bag, on the cold basement floor. Without an owner or a purpose.

Misplaced.