cut them free

TW: murder, suicide

Her plasticine face shatters with each change of expression. The fragments of her skin melt into each other smoothing the cracks once her appearance bears a thin resemblance to the proper emotion. Her fingers press to her lips, a subtle, yet undeniable sign that this person is only pretending. 

That is if beneath it all she is even a person.

The first signs of daylight appear over the fractured horizon of the mountains, sending waves of contempt flickering through my bones. Six in the morning, and already the careful solace of the night is slipping away. With it, the insatiable urge fills my mind again.

Do it. Do it now. It whispers, lulling my senses to complacency. Free her.

The barista taps her fingers against the counter, one by one. For a moment, the soft thud of her flesh takes me by surprise. 

I had expected the brisk clatter of plastic.

Her thickly mascaraed lashes bat heavily, straining against the weight of the morning. The cloud of her words still hangs in the air, leaving me to question what went unheard. If I should even care. Her eyebrows arch precariously, distorting the latex skin of her face.

She flinches briefly as the words slap her foundation-covered cheeks. What can I say though? It was the owner’s fault. Dogs should be trained to stay away from strangers.

She says shortly, but to my ears it is just childlike babbling, complaining to a disinterested adult.

Words leave a sweet taste in my mouth as I speak, the sickly taste of candy threatening to overwhelm me. Her expression falters, millimeter by millimeter her mask lowering.

No. Not enough. She is not free. You must free her.

The final word is barely out and already a wave of pride crashes over me, stained by something softer, darker. Maybe now that she’s gone—and she will be gone—a person who doesn’t try to cover their problems with lip gloss will take her place. How dare frauds like her take jobs from people who don’t see the need to lie. 

That is the problem though. These people are taught to lie from the womb. To say it’s okay, I’m fine, whenever it’s expected. To drown who they are with cold hands and merciless eyes. To choke themselves out, little by little, day by day. 

Some look and call it cruelty. Few can see through the lies of society; the dark shadow that has been cast over what I do.

This is mercy. This is tearing the fingers from that murdering hand. This is freedom.

The pungent smell of coffee scurries away, the scent, a rat heading back to the sewer. The thin straps of the bag over my shoulders cut into my flesh, and I make no effort to disguise my discomfort. No one makes eye contact with me. The painted expressions on their porcelain faces never change. Their eyes simply skate past me, catching on the twisted ruins of my left leg.

Free them. You see their pain. Cut them free.

In the eyes of each person, I see my mother. Her dark hair shorn short from yet another battle, sickness cutting hollows into her skin. Sharpening her jutting cheekbones. The poison was eating her inside out. She needed to be freed but refused to let go. I watched her strangle her nature, her truth, with an iron grasp.

The doctors called it cancer. I knew better. I knew that she was doing this to herself, killing herself slowly and without mercy. I had mercy.

She had screamed.

I can see her in each person who passes. I am called to save them, each and every one, from the poison they leech into their own veins. 

My father saw it too. He watched them suffer, with such knowledge, such empathy, that he couldn’t stand to leave them alone.

So, he hadn’t.

Where he went, others knew about his mercy. The door to his cell opened, his steps joined those of countless others, marching toward a meal.

Another prisoner set him free.

It is my calling to save the souls of these people before they can silence themselves forever. My father was a good teacher. He showed me everything. How the press of hot metal helped them let go. He always said that we knew it was working by the screams. He taught me how to use the knife. The angle of the metal against their flesh. I watched every, one.

When I was younger, I couldn’t see the truth. I cried when he showed me his art. He knew that it was my calling. Pressed a knife into my leg to show me suffering. Shattered the bones to teach me, this is what we are saving them from, he said. The best teachers teach by experience, you know.

He taught me to memorize the way the pain faded from their eyes. Told me, that while I was here, I would free them. Even now, I am prepared. 

They are too weak to do what I do. But it is not their calling.

Their plastic joints slip smoothly as they walk, their long strides cutting the distance between where they are, and where they are going. 

He catches my eye. The one with more pain than the others. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you can see them easily.

Veins are laced tightly across his forehead. Roping down his tensed arms, and twisting across his knuckles. His gait is uneven. Sweat beads at his temples.

He walks carefully as if each movement causes more pain. His steps lead him into the shadows of an alley, the sheen on his skin nearly reflective in the dark.

Save him. Set him free. You can see his pain. Save him. You’re so close. You know what to do.

The urge was right. His suffering needed to end. And I could do that for him.

Reaching behind my back, I pulled out the knife.

His back was toward me. Moving ever so slightly as if wringing his fingers.

Two steps away.

One.

He turned suddenly, throwing an arm towards me. Something long and sharp pierces my skin, right below my ribcage.

And just like my father, I was set free.