Phobia of Knives by Robert Ragan

Flash Fiction, Robert Ragan

Phobia of Knives

The man had a fear of knives; that was only one of many reasons why Jerry shouldn’t have been allowed out in public.

Butterfly knives, switchblades, steak, and hunting knives; Jerry feared them all. It wasn’t the ex, who once stabbed him in the arm with a pocket knife, or the crackhead who pulled out a butcher knife and robbed Jerry.

No, it was the little old lady next door who asked him to bring her an apple and a paring knife. When he walked back into the room, Jerry saw himself slam the blade right in the top of her head, turning all her gray hair instantly red. He handed her the knife, desperate to get it out of his hand. Ever since, he’s been terrified of knives, hoping he never picked one up and did something he couldn’t take back.

This was a silly phobia since knives were only one of the many weapons he could use. For example, had he not thought of mowing down innocent pedestrians with his car?

Well, yes, he had, and Jerry didn’t just stop driving.

He fights those thoughts. The people in his life thought this was just an excuse for his laziness.

His last ex couldn’t believe he was refusing to peel potatoes for her safety. Like all those before her, she got lost.

Jerry had turned himself into a recluse, never leaving home unless he absolutely had to.

Nobody needed to know his morbid thoughts of murder, which came in a variety of visions.

Sometimes, Jerry could see his fist clenched and pounding into someone’s face until there was nothing left but their bloody skull. Other times, his hands would be wrapped around someone’s throat, squeezing until their eyes burst from the sockets.

It was all too much.

Online he read something about the act of stabbing someone being a substitute for sex.

Yeah, that made sense, he couldn’t stab his fat cock into the open wound between every woman’s legs, so it made him want to plunge a sharp blade in and out of someone’s chest.

But how would that explain his urge to invite someone to dinner and poison the food?

Jerry needed to kill, and it didn’t matter how. It was something he felt compelled to do.

Murder was the “New” sex, and he was a born-again virgin.

Staying away from everyone and giving up his dreams was for their sake. He was in complete misery, lonely, and losing touch with reality, but he did the right thing.

It just wasn’t cool to go around killing people. It said it right there in the ten commandments.

Jerry had lived a terrible life and broken them all, but he’d be damned if he turned into a murderer.

“Thou Shall Not Kill.”

And Jerry wouldn’t; he just had to stay as far away from people as possible.

He hadn’t eaten in days, and one night sick from starving, Jerry was forced to leave his tomb.

If it weren’t for his rich parents, Jerry would have probably already killed someone in today’s competitive workforce. He had the world handed to him on a silver platter, but he could never live it up, for seeing the severed head of a pretty brunette laying on that silver platter.

It was just too much.

Walking around the grocery store, he kept running into this cute blonde. Everything was fine until they met in aisle four. All he saw were kitchen knives, butter knives, steak knives, and butcher knives.

The blonde passed by again, pushing her cart, and Jerry saw himself grab one of the knives and chase her around the store screaming. He’d hold up the chase to stop and stab other customers. It would be the worst shopping experience of their whole lives.

When Jerry came back to his senses, he was staring at the chick’s ass. That was it, forget eating he had to get out of there. Jerry looked like a child who just threw a tantrum and took off running out of the store. He was on the way to his car when he heard a calm voice say, “Slow down.”

It was a tall man, wearing a black overcoat, standing there flicking the ashes from his cigarette. He said, “What’s wrong with you? Did you steal something or see a ghost?”

Gasping for air, feeling the panic, Jerry said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

The man, with short hair and a beard, asked if Jerry would give him a ride across the bridge. Despite his murderous impulses, Jerry really wanted to help this guy. It wasn’t until they got in the car that Jerry thought of bashing his head in with the tire iron in the trunk.

Before he could start the car, the man pulled out a pistol. He told Jerry, “I’m not going across the bridge. You’re gonna drive me far away from here.”

Jerry, pulling out of the parking lot, said, “Christ man, you don’t really want to do this.”

The man said, “I’ve just killed a couple of people, don’t make me kill you.”

Everything the man said made Jerry feel a lot better. He asked the guy, “So, did you want to kill them, or was it just a robbery gone wrong?”

Jerry said, “I’ve been robbed by a crackhead before, only he had a butcher knife.”

“By the way,” Jerry said, “What kind of pistol do you have there? “

Jerry already had this killer feeling uncomfortable. Then he said, “I’ve been thinking of killing someone myself. “

Jerry asked the man, “What it was like to see all that blood and know it’s your fault?”

The guy decides to go with plan B. Lifting the gun to Jerry’s head, he said, “Pull over and let me out.”

As the man ran away into the cold night, Jerry yelled, “I knew you weren’t a real killer. Come back….kill me before I kill someone!”