Deadly Hobby

You might think it was hard for me, my love had been so strong. But in truth, it all came as easy as breathing. I will admit that I went through a sort of ritual to prepare myself. I lined my eyes with black charcoal eye liner, thick and dark. The darkness protects me from being seen. I hate it when people look into my eyes. I know that they can see my thoughts. The dark thick lines reflect their light back on them, keeping me safe.

I counted my breaths in and out, making sure that no one stole them as I made my way  on to the subway. The crowds pressed in around me might have bothered me, if I didn’t have the fiber of my animal friends draped across my shoulder. With them wrapping me in their strength, I felt calm and safe. The silly passengers saw a withdrawn woman with too much eyeliner and knitted clothing. That is half of my power. They dismiss me, they think me just another of the city’s thousand weirdos. There is power in being underestimated.

I sat in the middle of the car, wedged between a smelly construction worker and two teenagers engaged in a primitive battle of the tongue. As the tracks clicked away beneath me, I waited. Slowly I pulled the fiber through my fingers, knit one, purl two, yarn over and knit two together. The click of my metal needles fell into rhythm of the train. The cattle swayed with the motion of the metal beast as it lurched through the dank depths of the city. With each stop, more people pressed in to the metal box and I counted my breaths, all still there.

I sensed his presence long before I saw him. He neared in the throng, habit brought him to stand in front of me. His wide shoulders flexed beneath his t-shirt as he reached up to grab the over head rail. The train slowed for my stop and standing I lurched against him, “Pardon me.” I mumbled then swiftly slammed my sharpened needle under his rib cage and into his heart.

Ten years I loved him and he never loved me back. Ten years of pain deserved some sort of justice. His hand raised in a death grip to the bar, he died, the poison on the tip of my needle paralyzing him. Carefully I cleaned my knitting needle and slid it home into my fiber ball. I wouldn’t want his blood to stain my lovely sweater. Unable to move or speak, the crowd held him upright. I slipped out into the night as he took his last trip to the end of the line. It was so very easy.

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