Cold

The metal is warm as it passes over my hand. Or, not warm – not as heated as flesh would be – but less than cold. Even as it has passed its dull edge over my skin a hundred times, nothing could warm the blade. It is a letter opener, in the shape of a sword. The handle is tiny; only two fingers fit behind the guard. The blade itself shines under my desk lamp. The metal is smudged from my fingers, dampening the reflections. Only the point is sharp, and only just. It would take intent to plunge this dull blade through skin. I am safe enough fooling with it as I sit at my desk, listening to quiet music. The scabbard sits on another of my journals, this one unfilled as of yet. The scabbard is black and gold. The faux leather covering is peeling off and the "old" tinted paint is peeling. Remains of sticker gunk holds parts of it together.
The song changes. I balance the mini sword between my fingers. It's heavier than it looks.
I glance at the door. No one is there. I go back to playing with the sword. The weight is comfortable. I imagine being the right side to wield it…or better yet, if it were the right size for me.
The tip digs into the webbing between my first and middle fingers. It only hurts briefly before sliding along the back of my hand. There is no mark on my skin.
I run the blade gently across my wrist. It feels odd. A tingling builds up inside until I shiver the feeling away. My jacket today is blue; the left sleeve slips down my arm. I can see the twin lines of tendons and pale purple inside my body. I twist my wrist so the tendons pop a little and drag the sword across them as if I were playing a violin. The pressure feels too strange. The blade is cold, lying on my bare arm. I press the flat on my skin, hoping it will warm up. The blade won't conform to the shape of my skin. I set it down for a moment.
I glance at the door. No one is there. I go back to playing with the sword. The tip rests between my lips. My mouth is dry, my lips chapped. The point catches on dead skin. I pull it through. My teeth close around the point, like it's a giant toothpick.
Then I bite the middle of the blade, jaw clenched tightly. The handle is heavier than the rest of the blade. My head tilts to the right. I shift my grip, then the blade escapes my lips to clatter to the desk. I pick it up and press the point lightly against my left shoulder. I can't feel the tip through my blue jacket, but I can feel the slight pressure.
My eyes are heavy. I rest my head on my hand, the hand with the sword held loosely. I shift, and rest the flat against my neck. It's still cold. I turn my head slowly and drag the point across my throat. It feels almost warm. I run the blade along the back of my head, through my hair, held close to my skull.
My body goes cold with a feeling as though portions had fallen asleep and just woken up.
I set the blade down. There's an iridescent shimmer in a dramatic drizzle across the top part of the blade, nearest the tip. I run my fingers over it. It's slightly sticky. I scratch the back of my head and sigh.
I glance at the door. No one is there.
I feel week. My fingers trace over the sword again. This time, when I pull back, I see red. My wrist hurts. The back of my head does too. They feel sore, and I'm slowly going numb.
My fingers close about the sword hilt and I reach across the desk for the scabbard. My arm is twitching. I read the journals of the others our master kept. I lasted the longest, but now even I am glad to be rid of this place.
I glance at the door. He's been there, this whole time, watching me go mad, hasn't he? He stands in the doorway, laughing. My arm is still twitching and my body is going numb.
I try to slip the sword back into the sheath. I only get it halfway in before it slips from my fingers. He's still laughing.
I'm cold.