The Knife

*This story contains themes of sexual/physical violence, mental health, and other traumas. Please be advised before reading.*

*Also please excuse any formatting errors, for whatever reason this site never keeps my indents in place when I paste over the story*

Anti remembers falling out of her bed, her face caked with blood.

    She remembers crawling to the kitchen, pulling herself along the tile floor. 

    Anti remembers closing barriers around the memory of her trauma. 

    She remembers forcing it out of her brain and down her neck. 

   She remembers the feeling as it traveled from her shoulder, down her arm, and into

    her hand.

    She remembers passing the memory into the butter knife held firmly in her hand.

    Then she remembers relief. 

   The knife has lost its stainless-steel shine in the years since it was impregnated with experience. But even without a metallic glare, Anti can always feel it. The closer she is to it, the sharper the pain. She normally keeps it in a lock box. But not today. Today she needs it.

   She wakes from a dreamless sleep and rolls out of bed in a fluid motion. She dresses plainly and ties her curly locks in a high bun. The scar under the curve of her right eye catches her attention. The tug of the knife on her nightstand grows stronger. A smear of foundation hides the scar. The handkerchief that she wraps the knife in lies next to it in a crumpled ball. She reaches for it clumsily and accidentally touches the blade’s hilt.

   The memory strikes her like a bullet. All at once she is overcome with trauma as if every moment of it were happening at once. It lasts hours and seconds. She jerks her finger away from it like a child from a hot stove. She hasn’t been so absentminded as to touch the knife in months. Perhaps the significance of the day is getting to her. Because today she excises her trauma for good. 

The streets of Brooklyn are quieter than normal. Or maybe the sound isn’t registering in Anti’s ears. She walks mindlessly down the streets, working toward her destination on instinct alone. Every person she nears is given an uncomfortable amount of space. The wrapped knife is safely in her hand, where it won’t inadvertently hurt someone. Her sleeve has slipped down over it, to hide the blade from passersby. She spent the last several years trying to stop herself from feeling crazy, but today she can’t help it. Eyes follow her down the street and she can’t help but speed up as they do. The world is cruel to people who’ve been through what she has. Reality seems to bend itself out of shape to throw her trauma back in her face. 

Her feet stop in front of a dusty, stone stoop. A steep set of stairs lead to a large wooden door scarred with the markings of children. Vines climb the red brick walls and cover now useless windows. A teapot-shaped elderly woman is crouched at the top of the steps with her hands resting on the head of a ceramic dog statue. Her eyes are closed but a smile bends the corners of her lips upwards. 

“Hi Grandma Nellie,” says Anti, the fog finally lifted from her mind.

Nellie’s eyes snap open at the sound of her granddaughter’s voice. She waddles down the steps as fast as she can, her hips made heavy by a long life. Anti meets her halfway and embraces her in a warm hug.

“Antimony, my beautiful girl!” says Nellie. “It’s so good to see you!” 

“When were you?” Anti asks, gesturing towards the statue.

“I was visiting your grandfather on the day we brought home Buster. You remember Buster, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

Nellie’s smile widens as her granddaughter reminisces. She turns towards the door and beckons Anti to follow. 

“I have his collar inside, you should visit. I love that memory.”

Nellie lives in a large house that feels intensely small. Boxes of clutter line the walls. Stacks of old newspapers cover the couch. Every space is littered with knick-knacks, old silverware, clothes, and other pieces of junk. The objects themselves are useless to Nellie, but she can’t live without what’s stored inside them. As soon as she passes through the door, Anti’s senses are overwhelmed by memories. Her grandmother’s home is more like an outdoor farmer’s market on a busy Saturday than it is a quiet place of living. She can smell Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Sunday dinners coming from a tower of plates in the kitchen sink. Old conversations echo from a line of empty picture frames on the mantle. She can even feel the warmth of the hearth when she’s near the fireplace, even though it hasn’t been lit in years. Nellie’s home has become a museum of memories and Anti understands why. It’s hard to feel alone in a house full of ghosts. 

The only open seating found in the entire house sits at the center of Nellie’s small kitchen. A waist-level circular table is surrounded by two chairs with worn seat cushions. When Anti returns to her grandma’s side, she is digging through a box of old dog toys and leashes on the table. Nellie rummages through the box slowly, holding each item before putting it to the side. Looking up at her grandmother’s face, Anti realizes that her eyes are closed. For the stout elderly woman, it is easier to search for a memory, than for an object. Nellie’s eyes open as her fingers wrap around a stretch-marked collar of blue leather. She pulls it from the box and holds it out to Anti. 

“Here. Take this, sweetheart,” she says softly.

As soon as Anti’s hands touch the collar, she becomes enveloped in the memory. The summer breeze of a home without air conditioning hits her first. She’s on her knees. No, this is Nellie’s memory so she’s just several inches shorter. She sees the cobalt blue walls of her grandmother’s kitchen. The murmur of television hums behind her. In it, she can recognize John Madden’s iconic voice. It’s Sunday. Her grandfather is watching football. 

The flow of memory pulls her down. Her field of view shifts to the ground where Buster is laying on his stomach. Her arms extend towards him. Her fingers sink into his fur, a thick clump between each of her digits. It’s been so long since she’s petted a dog. Why has it been so long? Why…?

Why is her stomach sinking? 

Where is this fear coming from? 

No, not fear.

Terror.

Darkness settles into the scene like a fog. Anti can feel that she’s crouched over Buster, but now the sensation of lying on her back is taking over. And there’s weight. So much weight. She’s suffocating. There’s a hand around her throat. Buster bleeds away and now Anti’s fingers are digging into the skin of a man. A man on top of her. She’s in her freshman-year dorm room. She was just in the kitchen. How did she get here? There’s blood flowing from a cut under her eye. Her vision is going red. He’s on top of her again. How did this happen? He’s pressing down now with everything he has. He’s going to kill her. He’s…

Anti collapses as she’s snapped out of the memory. For a few harrowing moments, the afterimages of her trauma hover over her vision. She’s back in the kitchen. But not in the blue one, the cluttered one. Her head is on Nellie’s lap. The collar is on the floor and so is the knife. 

“A memory that strong will overpower any other, even if you’re not touching it. How long have been carrying that thing around for?” Nellie asks sternly.

Anti doesn’t answer. Her recovering mind cannot produce words right now.

“Can you speak, honey?” Nellie asks.

“Y…Yes,” Anti stammers.

“I’ve heard of people losing themselves to memories like that. Becoming slaves to their own pain. But not you. Not my Antimony.”

“I’m not strong. That thing terrifies me,” Anti says.

“Who told you that strength was the lack of fear? The strongest people I’ve known were terrified during the most important moments of their life. Fear is what pushes us to be strong.”

“I wasn’t even thinking when I made it,” Anti says looking at the knife. “I just wanted the pain to be gone. I didn’t want it in me, so I put it there. I just want it to be gone. It’s too much. I want to…”

Anti cuts herself off, ashamed of her intentions.

“You want to give it back to him, don’t you?” Nellie asks. “I heard he was getting out tomorrow. I knew they wouldn’t keep a pretty boy like him in jail for long. And I knew that the day he got out, you would need me.”

“He deserves it. He deserves to feel everything I felt. Not to become a better person. Not so he can get forgiveness. Just so he can hurt. Just so he can hurt like I did. Like I do,” Anti cries.

“I know. I know.”

“No, you don’t know. No one knows. You can’t. Not unless you touch that thing. And I won’t let you. I won’t let anyone. Only him. He’s gonna feel it deep in his gut after I stab him with it. It’s only fair! He’s gonna ask me why and I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of a reason. He should know. Everyone should know. I shouldn’t have to justify it! I shouldn’t have to think about it!”

The rant consumes the rest of Anti’s energy. Nellie holds her tightly, her hand rubbing the base of Anti’s neck. She wants to be strong for her granddaughter, but there is no helping the tears that begin flowing down her wrinkled cheeks. For the first time in a long time, she is completely present. 

Nellie moves the newspapers from the couch to the bathroom so Anti has somewhere comfortable to sit. She is wrapped in the only blanket not laden with memory. A washcloth soaked with warm water lies across the back of her neck. The rhythm of her breathing is still ragged, but it has slowed. Nellie returns to the room with a cup of tea. White tea, Anti’s favorite from childhood.

“Do you like it?” Nellie asks.

Anti nods still enamored in nostalgia.

“I haven’t made it in so long, I was worried it wouldn’t be as good.”

“It’s perfect, Grandma. Thank you,” Anti responds between sips. 

   Nellie leaves the room and returns with an object wrapped in thick layers of dinner napkins. Anti’s heart accelerates at its presence. Nellie holds it in her hands like the leash of a wild dog. She’s not going to let it hurt anyone.

   “This memory is strong. Stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. It still holds all the emotion from the actual event, so if you do what you want to…He’ll feel everything.”

    Anti is relieved at these words. She doesn’t want to give the man who assaulted her anything less than what he gave her. If the memory wasn’t whole, she’d just be stabbing him.

   “Good,” she replies.

    Nellie shakes her head, pulling the knife closer.

   “Don’t do it,” Nellie says.

 “Why shouldn’t I?” Anti asks, getting to her feet. 

    “This memory is still whole,” she says. “It’s still yours. You’ll be giving it to him. Don’t give him any more of you than he already has.”

    “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with that thing,” Anti yells, pointing at the bundle of napkins.

    “Take the memory back from it. While it’s still whole. While it’s still yours. Make it just a knife again.”

     Anti is taken aback. Does Nellie know what that would feel like? What that would do to her?

    “Are you kidding me? Why would you want me to go through that?”

   “It’s the only way to process it. To deal with it and move on.”

   “No! It’s my knife. It’s my memory and I’m going to do what I want with it!”

Anti steps up to Nellie and puts her hands on the bundle. She pulls it from her grandmother’s hands. Anger and fear paint her face as she makes her way to the door. 

    “I’m sorry. I’ve waited too long for this. I’m not giving it up now.”

    “I’m sorry too. Be careful.”

     Anti walks out the door toward a choice that will define her life. Nellie falls into a couch she hasn’t sat on in three years. She picks up Anti’s teacup, still warm and steaming. She can feel the memory of their fight slipping out of her mind, but she fights back against it. This one will be hers. 

     Anti pulls into the prison’s parking lot and parks facing the gate. Beside her, in the passenger seat, is a large, leather purse. Inside the purse is a bundle of napkins wrapping the knife. The chain-link gate is one hundred yards from the lot where Anti’s car is parked. Her eyes are locked on it, waiting for any signs of life. He should be coming soon. Her concentration is broken by the soft chiming of her phone. It’s Nellie. The ringtone is her favorite song. 

“You are my sunshine

My only sunshine

You make me happy

When skies are gray”

She peers down at the screen and winces at the image pixelated onto it. It’s Nellie, holding her as a baby. Anti’s puffy arms reach up towards her grandma’s nose and Nellie smiles down at her. Her hair was only just starting to gray. She was still hiding her wrinkles under makeup. Anti wonders where her grandma has this memory stored. The faintest hint of that day is nestled at the back of her mind. It’s mostly bright sunlight, the feeling of being held, and the smell of Nellie’s perfume. She can’t tell if any of it is real, but even though she knows it may not be, it’s still the most treasured memory she has.

“You’ll never know dear.

How much I love you

Please don’t take

My sunshine away.”

    The phone goes black, and Anti is met with her own reflection. She can see some of Nellie’s features on her own face. Her nose. Her eyebrows. Her lips. But her eyes… Her eyes are cold, whereas Nellie’s are warm. Her eyes take in light and give none back to the world. There is something missing. A piece of her cut away.

A loud ringing sound pulls Anti’s eyes from the phone. It’s the sound of the front gate opening. The rattle of the chain link fence shakes her soul, but Anti gathers the courage to get out of the car. In the distance she sees someone walking towards a yellow taxi. He’s in plain blue jeans and a gray shirt. He’s lost weight and his hair has begun to thin, but the tinge of the knife’s metal in her mouth confirms it. It’s him. 

Their eyes lock, only momentarily. He only looks up at her for half a second. There is no recognition in his eyes. She is nothing to him. 

“Ma’am, are you waiting for someone?” Asks one of the guards.

Anti doesn’t answer. She just turns around and walks back to her car. Reality feels different now. Like she’s been raised to a higher altitude. Anti wants to start the car and drive back home, but she knows that she can’t. She can’t go back home until this is finished. Her hand plunges into the purse and pulls out the bundle. She can already feel the weight of its contents pulling her down. She unwraps the handle of the knife and stares at her reflection on its stained metal surface. 

She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers around the hilt. The memory attacks her senses and takes control. But Anti doesn’t fight it this time. She meets her trauma with purpose. It tries to rip her apart but she pulls it into herself. A scream bursts from her throat as the scene starts to overwhelm her. Part of her wants to back out. Part of her wants to let go. But it’s either this or die, so she plugs forward. 

Finally, she cannot ignore it anymore. She looks up at the man who doesn’t even remember her face. For the first time, she realizes that he couldn’t even look at her while he raped her. She grabs his face with the points of her nails and forces his gaze down. There is nothing in it but puny fear. He is nothing but she will take him. She will take all of him, but he will get none of her. 

Anti pulls him into her. She pulls all of it into her. A slight prick of electricity travels from the knife to her hand. It travels up her arm and as it does the landscape begins to crumble. It reaches her shoulder, and his face implodes in on itself. It moves up her neck, into her head, and the memory blisters.

Everything begins to settle. The bed becomes her driver’s seat. Sweat and brass become the smell of a faded air freshener. Heavy breathing becomes a light breeze. She’s back in her car and she’s holding a knife. Just a knife. She’s shaking and crying. The pain is not gone. Anti is not okay, but she is whole. Everything that is meant to be hers, is hers only.