Blood or rust?

I let out an annoyed growl at myself and bang my head into the seat in front of me, hitting it just once, hard. I glare down at the floor, ignoring that Gabby turned to look at me, surprised.

‘I'm sorry.' I say to the floor, though the words are meant for her. In my peripheral, she turns back to the window, trying to hide her crying, though I can clearly see the glistening tracks her tears made down her face.

I glare at the bloodstain on my sleeve where I wiped my mouth after finishing with that guy. It's turning kinda brown against the light grey material now and I sigh, sitting back. Gabby's silence is kind of unnerving, but I don't know what else to say. Taking a quick glance at her, I get up and take my bag into the little bathroom.

Locking the door, I let myself slide down onto the floor. I unclip the sheath on my arm and let the blade slip down between my skin and the material of my hoodie into my hand. The rusted blade reflects the weak lamp light in here and I look at it for a moment, trying to discern if the spots of brown are actually rust or just dried blood.

Trying not to think about it. So I turn to the most mindless activity I can think of sat in here alone with a blunt knife. I rummage through my bag, hoping I didn't stupidly leave it at home, my fingers searching for the six inch block. The rough diamond surface meets my skin and I pick the block up, admiring its sparkle for a second.

It's just a block of steel with diamonds set into the surface, designed to sharpen knives like mine. With practiced ease, I brush the block along the blade, scraping away the brown spots and returning it to its old shine. I don't even know why I'm sharpening it. Nothing to sharpen it for. I guess I just realised how little care I had taken of it earlier? I don't know. S'pose it's just more something to do to pass the time and let Gabby cry herself dry.

Eventually I stop sharpening the knife, the edge of the blade sharper than half a razor and the diamond surface full of rust/blood. I put the knife back where it belongs and pick myself up off the floor, hunching over the little sink to wash the sharpening stone. As the blood comes free from the stone, I notice the stains on my sleeve again and set about washing them out.

It only half works. Defeated by the trickle of water, I leave the bathroom again, my sleeve soaking wet and my whole demeanour trying to keep a low profile. I don't want anything as drastic as that to happen again...

The End

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