markGRIEVER
Member
My DeviantArt: http://fallen-griever.deviantart.com
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Serrated.
Everything about it was brilliant to him, from its iron blade, covered in patches of thick rust, to the worn, rubber grip that adorned its handle. It gleamed brightly in what little light penetrated the murky windows, each speck of light highlighting the scratches the blade had suffered in its years of use, but despite the marks it was still brilliant. Perfect, even, because the scratches that covered the length of the blade weren’t imperfections in his mind. Far from it. They were battle scars from all its victories, victories against the overgrown weeds and out of shape hedgerows that covered his garden. It had been both the executioner and the stylist in equal parts, just like he wished he could be.
Each serrated edge on the metal reminded him of the curves adorning a beautiful woman, and he longed for them just the same. He wanted them pressed against his flesh, contorting his skin until it became part of the blade and his blood was battered together with the rust. It would be just like exchanging spit when you kiss. The blade would tear through the flesh, bone and blood vessels and leave behind a bloody mess he could admire as a symbol of love. Still, it was a misplaced “loveâ€
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Serrated.
Everything about it was brilliant to him, from its iron blade, covered in patches of thick rust, to the worn, rubber grip that adorned its handle. It gleamed brightly in what little light penetrated the murky windows, each speck of light highlighting the scratches the blade had suffered in its years of use, but despite the marks it was still brilliant. Perfect, even, because the scratches that covered the length of the blade weren’t imperfections in his mind. Far from it. They were battle scars from all its victories, victories against the overgrown weeds and out of shape hedgerows that covered his garden. It had been both the executioner and the stylist in equal parts, just like he wished he could be.
Each serrated edge on the metal reminded him of the curves adorning a beautiful woman, and he longed for them just the same. He wanted them pressed against his flesh, contorting his skin until it became part of the blade and his blood was battered together with the rust. It would be just like exchanging spit when you kiss. The blade would tear through the flesh, bone and blood vessels and leave behind a bloody mess he could admire as a symbol of love. Still, it was a misplaced “loveâ€