![]() ![]() It was slow, like he didn’t want my family waking. Not the silly ones with dressed-up ghosts or flickering lights or bleeding clowns – a real one, with real blood. If you run your finger over the wooden handle, you’d feel my name in childish cursive. My brother, upset that he can’t brand a knife of his own, angrily chimes in. ![]() I was six, and it was Grandfather Mountain. It was a small pocketknife – meant for cutting cans and things – that my mother bought me years ago. I left it on my sink’s counter, shining under the moonlight that bled through an apple-shaped window above the toilet. I slept with a knife under my pillow for weeks. Men burning holes into your soul doesn’t hurt unless it’s something else they want. He was only staring at me, though.Īnd this man – he never looked me up and down, chest to right above the ankle. They lingered a little too long and were always glazed over like he was stuck staring at something magical. ![]() Not the kind I liked reading about in the young adult section of the bookstore. When I’d go to school, walk home, stop by a coffee shop – he was there. ![]() This column seeks to connect the stories of my dreams/nightmares with my life experiences. Editor’s note: this article describes harassment, gore and violence. ![]()
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