Knife Thrower’s Assistant

“I heard you’re writing again.”

I feel the straps tighten around my wrists. I stop breathing just long enough to look him in the eye.

“Yes. It’s been nice. But reading is nicer.”

He prepares his stage. He needs no audience for his act.

“What about? Will you let me read something?”

The wheel starts to spin. I close my eyes. I pull my rib cage in, squeeze my shoulder blades together, and turn my head away.

“Nothing. No. You wouldn’t like it. It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” I flinch as the first knife finds its mark. I’ll never get used to this.

“No.”

“It must be. Why else wouldn’t you let me read it? Don’t you love me?” The second knife grazes me.

“No. You‘re missing the point.” The wheel turns faster.

“I wish I knew you. You feel like a stranger. Why won’t you let me in?” The third knife pins me to the board.

I’m so dizzy I don’t know how to answer. How many knives does he have left? Just the one.

He sees the pain. He knows I don’t want to be a knife thrower’s assistant. He knows I just want to be his wife. And that I am broken. He slows the wheel and drops the last knife, the one destined to silence my writing hand. He knows what words can do, and that right now his are hurting me.

He unties the straps. He squeezes my hand gently after curling my fingers back around the pen. He sets me free.