The Knife

Avery approaches with a kitchen knife in her right hand, wielded like a sword. Kate’s back is turned to her; she is browsing through the contents of the refrigerator. In one hand is a jar of strawberry jelly, in the other is a jar of strawberry jelly. Why two? Kate briefly wonders before plunging the knife into Kate’s back. 

Avery doesn’t drop the knife after she’s done this. For some reason it doesn’t occur to her that she should. Instead she remains very still, staring at the incision (which is much deeper than she imagined it would be), her tight grip causing her hand to shake. Through the handle she can feel the blade rummaging through Kate’s insides; in repulsion she finally lets go. 

She waits for Kate to fall to the ground and becomes increasingly apprehensive when she only remains as she is. Looking from one jar to the other. Coming to a supposed conclusion that is only knowable to her, Kate closes the refrigerator and hums pleasantly.

Then it occurs to her to look down, maybe be sure that her feet are still feet and haven’t become, say, hooves. There is a head tilt of surprise. Even though Kate is still facing the other way, in her mind Avery can see the tiny oh Kate’s mouth forms when she is surprised, and the way her eyebrows draw together endearingly.

She turns around slowly, hands hovering over her abdomen. Avery starts and covers her mouth to stifle a scream when she sees the blade poking through Kate’s stomach. It was a large blade Avery used; it momentarily astonished her with its largeness when she removed it from the set—now it seems monstrous. The red splotch that is forming around it looks like one of the red poppies patterned on Kate’s otherwise white blouse.

Kate slowly looks up to meet Avery’s horrified gaze. Avery sees the picture she conjured up in her head, a premonition coming to life; lips forming a small oh, eyebrows drawn together (they look like little caterpillars). It is almost uncanny.

 “Oh, Avery,” Kate sighs, tilting her head the way Avery’s mother did when Avery was little and wet the bed. “Why did you do that?”

Avery waits for Kate to plummet to the floor, for the injury to finally settle in, but that doesn’t happen. Instead Kate remains standing, remains looking at her (with that look). When Avery realizes she isn’t going to collapse, she gasps and backs away. 

She needn’t have, because Kate isn’t moving. Only her gaze follows Avery as she stumbles around the kitchen, leaning against the counter to keep herself up. She shuffles until she reaches the knife set, grabbing the second largest to wield in front of her. 

“Stay back,” she commands, her voice shaking. 

Kate looks at her for a moment longer, very thoughtfully. Then, casually, she walks toward Avery, who brandishes the knife in a way that is meant to be threatening, but Avery backs away the closer Kate approaches. But Kate’s only going for the bread cabinet. 

She takes out a loaf of sliced honey wheat, then reconsiders and swaps it for a bag of bagels. She glances at Avery out of the corner of her eye, just a brief glance. What she sees is Avery, backed against the counter, knife wielded. She decides it is more worthwhile to give her attention to the bagels. “Don’t be silly.”

Avery freezes. She nearly drops the knife, so she now holds it with both hands. Like a gun. “What?”

Kate only goes on humming her little tune. They both know Avery can hear perfectly fine, and that she knows perfectly well what Kate said. 

Even so, Avery tries again, “What?”

Kate stops humming abruptly. She sighs, looks at Avery with sober, dissatisfied eyes. Are you really going to make me explain things to you? She sees that the answer is yes. 

“You’re being silly,” Kate says. She nods, satisfied. 

Avery lowers the knife, only slightly. “Just—what are you saying?” she sputters. 

Kate frowns, disappointed. Clearly words will not suffice with this one. So she takes a step forward, in Avery’s direction.

Avery scuttles back. She backs into the kitchen table, which is good, because she probably would have lost her balance otherwise. 

Kate halts. “There, Avery. That was silly.” She smiles with her perfect white teeth.

Avery is breathing hard. She clutches her chest and feels that her heart is beating against it rapidly; it occurs to her that it wants to escape, and it occurs to her that she would be glad to let it. She never takes her eyes off of Kate.

But Kate takes her eyes off of Avery. She reaches into the bagel bag, collects two, then laughs when she realizes she’s forgotten to get a plate to set them on. She puts them back in the bag while she goes to find one.

The plate’s cabinet is close to the kitchen table, so Kate inevitably comes closer to Avery as she chooses one; Avery shrinks away untrustingly. All of the plates are white and plain, but some are larger and some are smaller and some are smaller than that, strictly for sauces and handfuls of nuts; some are round and some are square and the one Kate decides on takes the shape of a flower, much like the red poppies on her blouse. 

Kate sets the plate on the kitchen island. With minimal interest she looks at Avery, finding that her face has grown sickly pale, bordering on gray. Avery recoils under Kate’s dispassionate gaze. 

Kate throws her hands up in the air. The yelp Avery lets out would lead you to think Kate had pulled a gun on her.

“Now, Avery,” she says in the gentle tone one uses with a child adementally convinced that the monster under their bed is only hiding and waiting for the parent to leave to make an appearance. (Everyone knows that monsters strictly reveal themselves to children with disbelieving, stubbornly skeptical parents.) “You’re the one with the knife.”

Avery looks at the knife in her hands, as though this has only just occurred to her. Then, almost accusatory, she glares at the knife sticking out of Kate’s stomach.

Kate looks down; it’s as though she honestly forgot it was there. Then she puts a hand on her hip and shakes her head endearingly. “Well, I didn’t put that there, now did I?”

Then she reaches around and pulls it out of her back. It slides out with ease, making a sound like a slurp as it exits. The knife drips a puddle of blood on the tiled floor, leaving a red trail as Kate takes it to the kitchen sink to wash it clean. Then she returns to the plate and begins slicing the bagels. 

Avery watches this all like it's happening in a dream. When she is (almost) convinced it isn’t, she jumps to her feet, pointing the knife at Kate, using it to gesture rather than intimidate (which wasn’t really happening anyway.) “You’re…” she whispers, swallowing, “...you’re crazy!”

Kate pops the bagels into the toaster and hums as she waits. 

“What… how are you not dead?” Avery whispers. She remains fearful, and her guard is very much up, but she is also curious.

Kate looks at Avery. It is a look so genuine, so affectionate, it makes Avery briefly consider plunging the knife into her own stomach. They’d have matching wounds, then: a victim’s style of twin tattoos. Honestly, Avery, who is the victim here? “You aren’t dead, either,” Kate says.  

“Why are you here?” Avery screams. 

Avery is sure she can predict the words that will come out of Kate’s mouth next: Here? You mean, in my own home?

But that isn’t what Kate says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Avery’s cheeks flush no different than they would on a hot summer day. “Oh, please,” she mutters. She laughs, and then she can’t stop laughing. It brings tears to her eyes.

Kate laughs, too, and only then does Avery stop. “See?” she says. “Isn’t this so silly?” She does a little dance to demonstrate how silly it all is, then the bagels pop out of the toaster and she dashes to retrieve them, plate readily balanced in hand like she’s a waitress, or a vintage housewife.

Kate spreads the jams on the bagel slices, using a different jar for each bagel. When she’s done with one of them, she wipes the knife clean, then sticks it into the other jar. (Again, Avery wonders: why two?) She uses the knife to spread them. It makes a rough, scraping sound against the toasted bread. 

Kate returns the jam jars and bag of bagels to their proper respective locations, then carries the plate to the kitchen table. She is bleeding profusely from the gaping wound in her torso; no longer can the stain be confused for a measly poppy. She leaves the knife on the counter, but Avery still shrinks away as Kate slides into a chair. 

She places the plate in the center of the table. She blinks up at Avery. “Well, take a seat, won’t you?”

Avery does. “Why?” she wonders, a question directed at both Kate and herself. 

Why not, she hears Kate respond in her mind, and again she is wrong. 

“It's time to eat,” Kate says. She takes a sliced bagel and bites into it. She chews thoughtfully. Kate is perpetually thoughtful.

Avery stares at the flower shaped plate and the bagels presented upon it. “I’m not hungry,” she lies. 

“You are,” Kate tells the truth. 

“I don’t like strawberry jam,” Avery tries again.

“Because you vacationed in the Outer Banks the summer you were seven. The hotel you stayed at served unlimited biscuits and jam all day. You took full advantage of the opportunity and ate two dozen biscuits with strawberry jam the first day there. That midnight you woke up in a cold sweat, pajamas sticking to your perspiring skin, and you ran to the bathroom. Muddy pink globs splattered the walls and floor and practically anywhere that wasn’t the toilet bowl. Now you can’t smell a strawberry without getting queasy. I know.” She points at the two halves of bagels on Avery’s side of the table. “That one has raspberry jam.”

“I love raspberry jam,” Avery whispers timorously. 

“I know,” Kate smiles politely. “I also know you prefer blackberry jam to any other spread in this whole slim world, but we’re out, so I guess you’ll have to settle.” She winks. Avery has always thought that winking was a ridiculous expression, was sure it only made sense in print and would translate ridiculously in real life, but when Kate does it it translates exquisitely. 

Avery takes one of the half slices and warily bites into it. Crumbs fall down her shirt; somehow she doesn’t notice. Her tongue tingles at the sour-sweet sensation that overtakes it. 

They eat without speaking. Not quite in silence; the munching of toasted bagels fills that. Kate finishes first (even though she eats so thoughtfully) and waits patiently for Avery to follow suit. 

She is watching Avery as she takes the last bite. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Yes,” Avery agrees, savoring the last bite. Then she swallows. “Wait, what?”

Kate sighs and stands up, taking the plate now littered with crumbs with her as returns to the sink. Here we go again. 

“Hey,” Avery says. “Hey!” Avery shouts. She jumps up and shakes the knife in Kate’s direction. Avery is so silly.

“Yes?” Kate rinses the plate, then slides it into the dishwasher. 

“We aren’t done here,” Avery declares, aiming (again) for intimidation and is (again) only just short of amusing. Like a child trying to be menacing with their scrunched-up pouty face, all pursed lips and squinted adorable eyes. 

“No,” Kate says. “And we won’t ever be, if you don’t stop with all this silliness.”

Avery is staring at the intestines pouring out of Kate’s stomach. 

“How are you still alive?” Avery exclaims. She begins to cry, unsure why and unsure what else to do. 

Kate looks at the wound. She brings a finger to it, pokes it, then brings it to her lips. Thoughtfully, she sucks the blood from her index finger. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re hurt,” Avery accuses. “You’re dying.”

“Oh, Avery.” Kate picks up the knife on the counter, considers it, then sets it back down. “You can’t hurt me. And you certainly can’t kill me.” 

“What are you?” Avery asks. 

“I’m your friend, Avery,” Kate says, returning to her seat at the table. “And I know you, and I love you.”

Avery looks into Kate’s eyes and sees that this is true.

She begins to sob. “Why don’t you hate me?” she wails. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I’m your friend, Avery,” Kate says gently, reaching across the table to take her hands. “And I know you, and I love you.”

Avery is inconsolable. She cries harder and harder. Avery is a tremendously ugly crier, and for this reason she never cries in front of anyone, not even a reflective surface. But she feels okay to cry in front of Kate, who keeps hold of her hands and lets her. 

At some point Kate comes over to Avery’s chair to take her in her arms, cradling her and stroking her hair the way a mother would. At first Avery stiffens at the touch, then she settles into it. She doesn’t even notice Kate’s intestine hanging over her shoulder, or that the blood spilling out of the hole in Kate is seeping into Avery’s clothes. 

Avery thinks she could stay like this forever. She lets go of the knife; it clatters to the floor. Kate’s arms are so loving, so knowing. But they are pulled apart by a set of knocks at the door. 

“Well,” Kate chirps. “Now who could that be?”

Avery grows increasingly distressed with the distance increasing between them with each step Kate takes away from her. When she is out of sight, answering the door in the same cheery tone, Avery becomes downright terrified. 

“Avery,” Kate calls. “It’s for you.”

Avery gets up slowly; she approaches the door even slower. Just before rounding the corner, she has the thought, but this is your house. But by then it is too late.

The officers are on her before she can think, and by the time she can they’ve successfully cuffed her. One officer holds Avery roughly by the arms; the other goes to check something out in the kitchen. 

Avery’s heart doesn’t sink, it drowns. She shakes her head in disbelief. 

“Why?” she whispers.

Kate blinks. “Really, Avery? You tried to kill me.”

The other cop returns. “Bloody mess in there,” he gruffs, shaking his head. “Found the weapon. At least I think. It's probably blood, but hell if it looks a lot like strawberry jam.”

The cop ushers Avery out the front door. As she’s taken to the car, she hears Kate explaining to the officer that what he saw was actually raspberry jam.

Kate waves cordially as Avery is pushed into the car, like a loving wife waving to the departing plane her husband is a passenger on. The officer buckles Avery in, then slams the door harshly. The car rattles from the force of it. 

Before they can leave, Kate jogs to the driver’s side window. She chats with the officer, there’s a little back and forth, and then one of Avery’s barred windows rolls down. From where Avery is sitting, it looks like Kate is the one behind bars; this is not untrue, but Avery is the one they are meant to contain.

Kate smiles down at Avery pityingly, which to Avery is synonymous with degradation. “Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Wouldn’t be polite.”

Avery spits at her. “Backstabbing bitch.”

Immediately Avery hears Kate’s oh-so-clever response in her mind, and this time it matches what Kate says next. “No, Avery. That would be you.”