31 Days Of Flash Fiction - Day 8

The Quiet Thing

It waits on a mantle.

Sometimes a table. Sometimes a bookshelf.

But always it waits.

It travels from one house to the next, handed down, sold, traded, but never discarded.

It sees the gun flash, the spray of red.

And it waits.

It sees the shining grin of a knife, cutting arteries.

And it waits.

It sees the noose drawing tight, feet swinging free.

And it waits.

It watches all death with glazed marble eyes.

And it smiles.