Hunting knife

As I staebbed the air, I seddenly thougth of the fat woman, the ex-United airlines stewardess. I could see her pale, bloated flesh hovering in the air around me, formless, like mist.Everything was there inside that mist. The rafts, the sky, the sea, the helicopters, the pilots. I tried slashing them in two, but the perspective was off, and it all stayed just out of the reach of my blade. Was it all an illussion? or was I the illussion? maybe it didn´t matter.come tomorrow, I wouldnt be here anymore.

“Sometimes I have this dream” the young man in the wheelchair said. His voice had a strange echo to it, as if itwere rising up from the bottom of a cavernous hole. “theres a shrap knife stabbed in the soft part of my head, where the memmories lie. It´s stuck deep down inside. It doensnt hurt or weigth me down – its just stuck there. And I´m standing off to one side, looking at this like its happening to someone else. I want someone to pull the knife out, but no one knows it´s stuck inside my head. I think about yanking it out myself, but I can´t reach my hands inside my head. It´s the strangest thing. I can stab myself, but I cant reach the knife to pull it out. And then everything starts to disappear. I start to fade away too. Only the knife stays there – to the very end. Like the bone of some prehistoric animal on the beach. That´s the kind of dream I have,” he said.

 

Hakuri Murakami

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