The Knife had been in our family for generations. I never understood why, it wasn’t a particularly pretty Knife. Black moulded plastic handle, orange accents that had been dulled with time. An ‘L’ monogrammed in the same faded orange. It looked the same as the knife I always used to carve the Thursday chicken, but if I dared suggest using it, I would be told off. 

It was displayed on the mantelpiece, always looking pristine, my mother dropping anything to shine it up. She once stopped halfway through putting a plaster on my knee because there was a spiderweb on it. I don’t know why she was so enthralled by it, she told me I would understand when it was mine. I don’t want it, I want nice family heirlooms, not a weird Knife that I’ve got to clean. 

I always wonder if the Knife talks to her too? 

Whispers of how it’s bored.

How it wants to feel flesh again… 

The voice became too much. It took some preparation but soon, I had everything I needed. 

The Knife would feel flesh again. 

I waited until my mother was having her afternoon nap and took The Knife from its stand. It was surprisingly light and felt right in my hand, as if it was made for me. 

Despite its age, the blade was still sharp. There was some resistance at first, the tip of the knife getting stuck on a fatty piece of sinew. Once that snapped, The Knife sunk through the flesh, content to finally be used after generations on display. As I finished the cut some blood dribbled out, I was grateful I had put the mat down. As I looked at the blood tarnished blade, my mothers voice popped into my head ‘keep it clean.’ 

I turned on the tap, testing it to make sure it was the perfect mix of hot and cold. I didn’t want to startle The Knife. I placed it under the water, watching as the blood slid off. I turned the tap off and gently dried The Knife, making sure it was shiny once again. 

I inspected the piece of flesh I had cut off, it was perfect. No sign of tearing or any other struggle. It really was a good Knife, no wonder it had been calling out to be used. I started on the next cut, once again carefully washing The Knife clean. There was more blood than I expected, but it didn’t matter. I soon got lost to the ritual of slicing then cleaning The Knife, it was strangely relaxing. 

With the flesh perfectly cut, I moved onto the next item. Cleaning the guts off The Knife was more difficult than the blood, the stringy bits getting wrapped around the blade. The extra work was worth it for the happiness I could feel radiating from The Knife. It must have been boring, stuck on display for all these years, when all it wanted was to do the job it had been created for. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother demanded from the doorway. 

I turned, hiding The Knife behind me, “Nothing!” I sounded too cheerful. 

“The Knife! Why have you moved The Knife?” she took a step closer, trying to grab it from my hand. 

“It just wanted to be used!” 

“But it’s an heirloom!” 

“Didn’t you hear it? Asking to feel flesh? It asked so nicely, and,” I stepped to the side, revealing what I had been cutting, “look how nice the Beef is! These slices are practically perfect. I should have rested it longer though, I didn’t expect so much blood.” 

She took a step forward, inspecting the meat, “Hmm you’re right, I’ve only ever had wonky chunks of meat using our other knife,” she laughed. 

“I carved a pumpkin for the kids too. Getting the guts off the knife was a pain though.” 

“Oh, that’s beautiful, I’ve never seen such pointy teeth on a pumpkin,” she sighed, “I guess we can use it for food. To tell you the truth I’m fed up of cleaning the damn thing. Just don’t tell your grandmother, she’ll have forty-fits!”