"You're the knife."
Words. Clumsy words. Taught to me by my father, and his before, and worn into my skeleton like a bad habit. This was a bad habit, and still is.
"Be the knife."
A hoarse whisper in the dark against the swinging, hanging light. Ten competitors, thirty spectators; all losers. Two in the middle. All my life I've practiced and trained and pained for something so much greater than this. Means does indeed, unfortunately, make the man.
As I grip the soft leather of the knife handle, circa 1909, I hope these letters find you well. I hope they find me well, too, and I'm sorry for the three of us that it's come to this, cher. I'm sorry that every night for the last eight months I've promised I would come home, but haven't. I can't. Every penny here is ten dollars at home, and ten dollars we need. Every scar over my cheek a simple victory. Every meal is a regret. Every night is goodbye. I miss you. I've never said it, and I can barely think it. Now it's time to set these heavy,