DETAILS

Rome – 1997.

I missed the first train.

Everything that happened stemmed from that small and seemingly random detail.

An hour to kill on the platform. Tossing cards into my bag (backup set, of course; not the pack I found in Austria – see page 32); missing more often than not. 

Bored group of teens wandering around, looking for easy entertainment. Cruelty-based preferred.

My mouth has always had a mind of its own, and I have no patience for bullies (in full transparency, missing the train was maybe not the only contributing factor).

One thing leads to another, and the group of teens has gotten smaller, but more determined to find their sport. Knuckles raw, I find myself in an alleyway that can only be described as ‘intensely Italian;’ narrow and winding and seeming to stretch from one end of the neighborhood to the other. It smells of hot garbage and fresh bread. 

And it narrows.

I think it was a brick that brought me down eventually (it certainly wasn’t a cobblestone, bearing foot traffic since the Caesars-as I would not be left with life or wit sufficient to pen these words if that were the case).

As they approached and did their best to circle me, Doc Marten’s no doubt itching for my scalp, I saw it amongst the refuse. Laying in what appeared to be a nest of shattered obsidian (only in retrospect will I remember the remnants of right angles and hand-knapped edges; it must have once been a box of some sort). 

It felt right in my hand. 

Too right. 

As I turned and stood, the gang intent on my destruction scattered backwards, falling over each other to gain some distance from me. The knife wasn’t even open; I wasn’t brandishing it – just holding it in my fist.

There is a sound, I’ve decided; though I haven’t had the motivation to hear it for myself. It’s the only thing that makes sense, based on the way the boys clapped their hands over their ears as they writhed on the ground in that alleyway.

The bleeding was another subtle sign.

I, of course, heard nothing. I walked past their silent screaming forms and made my way out. Once a safe distance away, I wrapped the knife in my handkerchief (No. 6071) and headed for the train. I’ve only touched this knife with bare skin one time since that sunny Roman afternoon, and with similar results.

Pocketknife (No. 901): Dark bone scales. Always sharp. Handmade obsidian case included (and mandatory).