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Bilden är orelaterad. Skrev detta på inte alltför lång tid. Respons och kritik uppmanas. (Y)
What transpired over mere moments seemed like full minutes. Hours even. But that's what happens when you have a knife to your neck.
The man against whose neck the blade rested was seated on the floor, pushing himself against a wall, continously trying to move backwards, to get further away from the blade. The man wielding the knife was crouched, half over the other man, half to the side of him. His face was covered above his mouth. The rest of him was clad in a black coat. The first man had not dared to look further than that, having the blade to his neck. The man wielding the knife slowly pressed the knife further towards the man's neck. It did not take much force for the skin to be punctured and blood to show. But the jugular had not been severed. There was blood, sure, but not enough to kill the man. Not yet.
The man against whose neck the blade rested was terrified. He feared the man who was about to kill him. He feared what would come. He feared death. It was not dying that he feared, it was Death. It was the not knowing. The not knowing if he was to face eternal conciousness in some sort of paradise or punishment. If he was to disappear and spend eternity just gone, unconcious. Both was equally terrifying to the man. To disappear forever, simply be nothing, or to exist forever. The knife was pressed harder. He feared the pain. And the pain grew stronger. The man did not know what he would do had he been alone when facing terror and pain such as this. He might have cried out, he might have tried to get help. There was no knowing. And it looked as though he wouldn't get to find out. The smell of blood was stronger now. It had run down over and around the knife and was now running down across the first man's chest. It was warm. It smelled metallic. It was nauseating but the man said nothing. He did not cry. He did not beg. He said nothing.
A faint, muffled, shout could be heard a bit away. The man wielding the knife turned towards the shout. The man whose neck was cut dared a glance down towards his neck and chest but turned his eyes back upwards at the sight of the blood. The smell had grown stronger and looking at it did not make it better. The muffled shouts continued, it seemed the man wielding the knife was receiving instructions. It did not take long. The man wielding the knife turned back towards the first man with an evil grin on his face. He looked like someone knowing he was about to do something bad, and enjoyed it far too much. He was not merciful, he did not give the first man an easy escape. He took the knife, did not remove the blade from the first man, and from the neck where he had cut before he cut upwards. Over the first man's cheek, over his eye and then stopped halfway across the first man's forehead. The man with the cuts on his neck and on his face was in pain. So much pain. Blood was running down his eye so he could barely see. Parts of his cheek had been punctured, there was a hole. Nothing vital had been severed or punctured.
The man wielding the knife removed the blade from the first man's flesh, stood up and started to walk away. As he did so he used the same blade as he had used on the man whose face was bleeding, and he cut the fifth line of a tallymark into the flesh on the inside of his forearm. He did not look back. He did not regret. He kept walking.
The first man was left behind. The man on whose neck the blade had rested. The man who had been cut but not killed. The man who had his face cut into. The man who was bleeding. The man who had not been killed, but possibly been left for something worse. The man who had to wear these scars forever.
What transpired over mere moments seemed like full minutes. Hours even. But that's what happens when you have a knife to your neck.
The man against whose neck the blade rested was seated on the floor, pushing himself against a wall, continously trying to move backwards, to get further away from the blade. The man wielding the knife was crouched, half over the other man, half to the side of him. His face was covered above his mouth. The rest of him was clad in a black coat. The first man had not dared to look further than that, having the blade to his neck. The man wielding the knife slowly pressed the knife further towards the man's neck. It did not take much force for the skin to be punctured and blood to show. But the jugular had not been severed. There was blood, sure, but not enough to kill the man. Not yet.
The man against whose neck the blade rested was terrified. He feared the man who was about to kill him. He feared what would come. He feared death. It was not dying that he feared, it was Death. It was the not knowing. The not knowing if he was to face eternal conciousness in some sort of paradise or punishment. If he was to disappear and spend eternity just gone, unconcious. Both was equally terrifying to the man. To disappear forever, simply be nothing, or to exist forever. The knife was pressed harder. He feared the pain. And the pain grew stronger. The man did not know what he would do had he been alone when facing terror and pain such as this. He might have cried out, he might have tried to get help. There was no knowing. And it looked as though he wouldn't get to find out. The smell of blood was stronger now. It had run down over and around the knife and was now running down across the first man's chest. It was warm. It smelled metallic. It was nauseating but the man said nothing. He did not cry. He did not beg. He said nothing.
A faint, muffled, shout could be heard a bit away. The man wielding the knife turned towards the shout. The man whose neck was cut dared a glance down towards his neck and chest but turned his eyes back upwards at the sight of the blood. The smell had grown stronger and looking at it did not make it better. The muffled shouts continued, it seemed the man wielding the knife was receiving instructions. It did not take long. The man wielding the knife turned back towards the first man with an evil grin on his face. He looked like someone knowing he was about to do something bad, and enjoyed it far too much. He was not merciful, he did not give the first man an easy escape. He took the knife, did not remove the blade from the first man, and from the neck where he had cut before he cut upwards. Over the first man's cheek, over his eye and then stopped halfway across the first man's forehead. The man with the cuts on his neck and on his face was in pain. So much pain. Blood was running down his eye so he could barely see. Parts of his cheek had been punctured, there was a hole. Nothing vital had been severed or punctured.
The man wielding the knife removed the blade from the first man's flesh, stood up and started to walk away. As he did so he used the same blade as he had used on the man whose face was bleeding, and he cut the fifth line of a tallymark into the flesh on the inside of his forearm. He did not look back. He did not regret. He kept walking.
The first man was left behind. The man on whose neck the blade had rested. The man who had been cut but not killed. The man who had his face cut into. The man who was bleeding. The man who had not been killed, but possibly been left for something worse. The man who had to wear these scars forever.
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