PIECES


Sicily, 1899

His icy hand wraps around my hilt. His hand oozes with hatred and…and something I cannot tell. But in his grip there is bitterness, disgust…anger.

I can see where he is taking me. In the middle of the room, fire glowing, Monet paintings on the wall, sits a man. He is old, his white hair long and wavy, somewhat greasy, as if it hadn’t been washed for sometime. His robe is rich and obviously expensive; the man carrying me is in a butler uniform, blank and white suit.

The butler grips my handle harder and soon I am thrust into the older man. I feel his body tense and he quickly dies. I am a weapon made to kill and nothing more. I only wish I could stop. But I have no arms and no legs to get away. I should have no way of thinking but yet I do. I have a conscious.

London, 1927

For years, I am left untouched, tossed by the butler into a box full of gold coins and other precious treasure. Eventually, I am placed in an old antique store run by a kindly middle-aged gentlemen with wire-rimmed glasses.

A young man with his girlfriend come in. He has his arm wrapped loosely around her waist. You would expect his eyes to be full of warmth and love but they are cold as the steel of my blade and oh so empty. His ice blue eyes catch sight of me, the sun seeming to glint off the tip of my blade.

A cruel smile plays on his lips as he reaches for me. He grasps my handle and looks for a moment at the intricate carvings on my blue tinted blade, deadly. He turns to the girl drawing her close. I slowly feel my blade plunge into her stomach. I hear her soft cry of pain, exclaiming his name.

He lets me go and she falls to the floor. The owner looks over, his eyes wide as the man runs away. I cry silently, tearlessly. Why am I cursed to have a heart when I am just a piece of steel, incapable of controlling what I am and how I am used?

Warsaw, 1940

Again I am taken to Europe. I am the belonging of a soldier a long period of time. He soon falls. I am glad for he is a very bad man. A Nazi I believe he iss called. They are terrible men. I am used for so many terrible things, that I do not wish to recall.

One day, he falls in battle and I was left among the fallen leaves. A small boy, about 9 I should say, finds me. He picks me up, admiring the engraved design on me. He smiles slightly.

A soft stir is heard in the grass. It is one of the fallen soldier’s friends. The boy’s eyes widen and he grips my handle in fear and then determination. He gives a loud cry and runs to the soldier, driving me through his chest.

The man falls in surprise and the little boy spits in his face. “That is for my people,” he says.

I can honestly say that this might have been the only time that I have been proud of what I am.

Chicago, 1972

At some point, I am discarded in a nice suburban neighborhood in America. You would think that this would be a place where every family is perfect. That isn’t exactly true…

A little boy maybe 6 or 7 riding his tricycle catches glimpse of me. His eyes widen and he grabs me in his chubby hands. He pumps his legs as fast as he can, and into his yard. His mother, a middle-aged woman, her face lined from yelling and anger, is outside shouting his name.

He comes up from behind her, knife in hand. He thrusts it into her lower back and I hit her spine. There was a short cry before she falls to the ground, dead.

I always kill…no matter what. I have never failed at the job I was given to do.

New York, 1999

My journey finally brings me to New York. The center of the modern world. I am being sold by a street peddler. A man with shoulder length black hair, sorta flipped stops. He looks at me, a light mustache around his mouth, his dark soulful eyes gazing at me. But his eyes hold a different emotion from the others…sadness, regret.

Gently almost lovingly he picks me up, throwing a few dollars back at the man selling me. He holds me in his sweaty palm and is soon walking beside 3 other men. They enter a building and as the man in front of him, a young man with brown hair and a kind face begins to enter he brings me in, posed to kill.

He presses me into the man’s back slowly, whispering in his ear. “I love you, Tetsu,” he said. The dying man’s hand presses against the glass as he slides down, eyes wide.

I am so tired of killing. I wish that someone would destroy me. Just grant me this one thing; let me kill no more. I am so tired…

Let it end.

THE END

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