Knights and Knives
I don't know what is more difficult: the pain or the recovery. After being stabbed on an open wound, you would only think a hundred times before using a butter knife. You will use a spoon, even a fork, but every knife will remind you of the stab. Each memory will roll like a series of flashback, every picture quickly succeeded by another, minute details of intricate details of each blow. You relive every moment as if the then is now. It speeds up the heart rate but nobody can hear it beside yourself. The chest is burdened with pounds of guilt and courage, only you know the serpentine breath struggling to come out of your lungs. Your hands prepare to fight, because the last time they betrayed you to fright. Your legs prepare to stand more firmly if that's possible. All you know is the knife can hurt you anytime. The sharp knives will show mercy and bleed you till you pass out; the blunt ones will make vain attempts, but will leave marks for you to feel the terror again