You pick up a knife, its sharp blade positively gleaming in the sunlight. Gently, you caress it with the dishrag, polishing it to perfection. Amazing, isn’t it, to think that you have a tool of such power in your hand. Amazing, that it’s just a simple kitchen knife, yet capable of so much more.

Honed cutting edge that you can see clearly in your mind’s eye, neatly slicing through skin. A needle sharp point, stabbing cleanly through a man’s chest. Beautiful, deep ruby-red blood would bubble up and start gushing. The power that this simple tool holds is fascinating, because it can’t wreck havoc on it’s own, no. It’s the hand that wields it, you know perfectly well.

You almost want to do it yourself. Slice your wrist with it, to see this blood that bubbles and gushes, this blood that courses through your veins.

It’s almost perverse, you know, this desire. But still, your eyelids flutter in anticipation, your breath hitches, your pulse drums in your ears. The rest of your body starts to numb, except for your slippery palms that feel cool metal and your lungs that feel more and more constricted.

However, you’re not depressed, or suicidal, or whatever. No, you have a cat-- a beautiful sleek and grey one named Camelot-- that you really truly love, and you’re planning on seeing a movie with your friends this coming weekend. But that doesn’t change these thoughts.

You’re not suicidal, or a murderer-- not even wrong in the head. Because you’re not stupid enough to do anything remotely disastrous with this knife-- no, you just admire it. Greatly admire it.

You set the knife down and begin washing a spoon.