[ CW ] write a story from the point of view of a serial killers favorite knife .

I hate her. 
 
 When we rolled off the conveyor belts, we were destined for butcheries and kitchens. We were supposed to sit amiably on the shelf until they took us out to slice some veggies, or perhaps a slab of meat. A noble purpose for a knife, to be sure. 
 
 For a while this was my purpose. I felt her thin fingers wrap around me and wished I could shiver with excitement as I was pushed through the cool, wet flesh of a cucumber. Her hands were gentle, but firm. I liked how her ring felt as she caressed my handle. 
 
 Then one night there was stomping, a younger woman's scream, and doors slamming. Two voices bellowed back and forth at each other. A few minutes later she pulled me from the shelf. Her hand shook, and for a moment all was silent. But then suddenly I felt myself forced forward into something. It felt like meat at first, but then there was a scraping like bones. It *hurt*. The meat screamed, then gurgled and fell silent. Again and again she thrust me into it. After a long time she finally stopped and ran cool water over me before setting me back on the shelf. I sat there for a long time. 
 
 But now she takes me out all the time. The first was a thin one with lots of bones. I recognized it as the one who had screamed so high-pitched before the last time my owner used me. It screamed and screamed before going quiet. Most foods do that. A few have been quiet, and for that I'm grateful. 
 
 My owner uses me at least once a week now. Usually I stay on the shelf- she likes to bring her food home I guess- but sometimes she puts me in a bag where it's dark and stuffy. I do n't like what she makes me do.
