Disclaimer: the following depicts graphic content.
My husband was a paranoid man. His paranoia stemmed from the idea that he would not be able to repay a debt, and in turn, meet his timely demise at the hand of a sword-for-hire posing himself as a barber in the hopes that my bearded husband would never see it coming. A swift, uneven jolt would not only see him bleed to death, but pose his death as a slight of hand. A very, for some, fortunate accident.
He never wanted to shave himself, for he could never get it 'just right'. Resulting in the household rule that I was the only one my husband would trust to place a blade against his throat, shearing away the madness of facial hair to allow for a cleaner, less scruffier look which he preferred. Namely towards the very last months of his life.
Poised in my hand, you were sleek. Pristine. A straight-razor which reflected a wedge of light to burn into the core of my retina, the presence of my green iris reflecting. I held you with extreme concentration: my tongue between my lips, my eyebrows vaguely furrowed. Creating upward flourishes of swipes, straddled on my husband's lap, shaving him smoother than a newborn babe.
I was so delicate when I used you, for your blade was so sharp and nicking my husband's neck would likely result in my physical punishment. Thoughts would swirl across my mind in the process, considering the possibility of what would happen if I nicked too hard, if I cut too deep. Drawing your blade across the flesh of his throat, wounding his Adam's apple and watching the dark crimson blood pouring from the gash I had created.
Or would it spurt? Would I have been showered in my husband's blood, speckles of scarlet dousing my face and hands. My linens, the hardwood floor. His arms falling loose, becoming still and motionless after his momentary bout of choking and clawing at his neck. I would climb off of him, and stand back, watching my salvation in the form of pooled blood dripping down his chest and concealing itself beneath the cotton confines of his shirt.
Dead. Still warm, having watched the life drain from his icy eyes as he stared back at me, bloodsoaked and in horror.
But then I blinked as he asked me what was wrong, forcing a faux smile as I shook my head and continued to shave towards the tip of his chin and hum my dismissal with the sounds of the hair slicing mercilessly beneath your blade. I remembered that I was in love with my husband. Very much in love. So much so that you would not be considered a weapon that eve.
But merely a tool to evidence my good behaviour.
