About this writer
It was the day of sentencing, in a trial that had held the attention of the nation in a vice. They sat pensively in the court room as the judge, dressed in his ominous black robes, took his seat. Teresa, accused of killing her husband in cold blood, sat mutely in the dock, her gaze distant. I lay on the evidence table, eagerly waiting for the ruling, waiting to see whether I would be going home with my dear Teresa.
Teresa. Just saying her name elates me. Teresa got me fresh from the forge; back strong and ramrod straight, handle sturdy and firm, edge as sharp as that of the razor, my diminutive cousin. She took me home and shortly after that, our love affair began. We met mostly in the kitchen, twice every day. Teresa held me expertly as together we sliced, diced and carved flavorsome meals. She was a remarkable cook and I was proud to be the most loved item in her arsenal. The recipient of the hard work Teresa and I put in in the kitchen was Wycliffe, Teresa’s undeserving husband.
Wycliffe. Just saying the name fills me with loathing so thick, even I can’t cut through it. Wycliffe was unworthy of Teresa or her love. All that the womanizing and violent sorry excuse of a man could do is drink and beat Teresa till she was a whimpering mess on the floor. On the night of the murder, he came home reeking of unsavory brews, hurling affronts at the top of his voice, disturbing our peace. The reason for the violence was not clear, it never was with Wycliffe. He grabbed Teresa and hurled her backwards. She hit the sink with the small of her back and I heard the sickening crunch of bones. As Wycliffe took drunken, menacing steps towards her she quickly grabbed me and pointed me towards her husband.
“Tonight is the last night you touch me. Take one more step towards me and this night is the last your eye shall ever see.” Her stare was steely and her voice as cold as the metal that formed my body. As she held me firmly by my handle, hand steady, voice unwavering, my sharp edge glinting against the light, Teresa and I had finally become one, in body and in purpose.
Either because he was too drunk or too stupid, Wycliffe teetered and took a step forward. I felt Teresa’s grip tighten as she swung me upwards then brought me down in a glorious arc to meet Wycliffe. I easily cut through his shirt, skin and fat. I was surging forward, blood spouting all over me when I felt Teresa yank me backwards, lifting me over her head again. “Come on!”, I wanted to shout, “We are not done!” She must have heard me, for she sent me flying back towards Wycliffe, my point splitting the air in a melodious swish that stopped when I impaled his chest a second time. “We are almost done! Again!” Teresa obliged and took a third swing. “Again! Again! Again!”
Teresa set me down before picking up her phone and calling the police. She then poured herself a glass of wine. We stayed in the kitchen, each enjoying their unique red vintage as the sirens bore closer and closer.
Weeks later Teresa had sat in the witness chair in the court room. Her lawyer had cautioned her that taking the stand was a bad idea but she had been stubborn. When asked if she had killed her husband she replied with composure: yes. When asked if she had intended to kill him, again in an even tone, she replied: yes. When asked why she killed him, she was silent for a long moment. Then she spoke, “Every scar I have on my body brands a lifetime of cruelty by that man. I lived my life with him not in love, but in fear. Fear that one day my cries of pain would be my last, sent to my death by the very hand that was supposed to protect me. When I picked up that knife, I had let go of my fear. I stabbed him and I killed him. My only regret is that my knife did not leave scars as permanent as those that he left me. I may have taken a life, but I saved another, mine. And that knife helped me do it.” Ah, Teresa. She made me so proud that day.
It’s now the day of sentencing. We all wait pensively as the judge begins to deliver his ruling.