The Wound

You see it beneath the skin of someone you love – bruise where blood should run clear. It feeds on what you cannot name. Every silence lets it root deeper. They do not see it. Or will not. Your first instinct is silence. Your hand goes to the blade and hovers.

The Path

You did not arrive with this hand. The first time, you cut too deep – watched the colour leave their face and understood that truth without calibration is just a wound with better intentions. The second time, too shallow: the rot smiled at you through the skin you couldn't bring yourself to break. A hundred cuts made this hand – until the wrist knew the difference between surgery and punishment. You cut anyway. The blade sinks – just enough to save. Not more. Then you stay. They look at you. All they see is the blade. One day, perhaps, their finger will trace the scar. You lower the blade. Your hand is still shaking.

The Shadow

Not everyone tightens their grip. Some never lift the blade at all. The Kind's hand rests on the blade. He sees the shadow spreading, feels the weight of steel in his palm, yet never lifts it. Tomorrow, he whispers. When they're ready. He offers warm water. Smooths the linen. The shadow roots deeper. He tells himself that standing beside them is enough. He waits for permission until they can no longer give it. The shadow reaches what the blade refused to. In the quiet after, he washes his hands. They are spotless – always were. ❖ The Honest sees the same shadow. Her grip steadies. They needed this, she tells herself. The blade flashes, and the shadow dies, but so does the tissue around it. She keeps cutting. Carves until nothing remains. The room fills with sterile silence. The rot gone is gone. So is the body. The oath lives in the narrow cut: to love with a blade, and stay the nights you are not forgiven.

The Cut