What Cuts, It's Spoken too.

The handle,    
gleaming.  
Under the fluorescent light.  
The base of the blade,  
stained    
in crimson red.  
Its point,    
the rest of its edge  
and the centre    
of the knife,  
buried in her heart.  
The Vic,    
her name was Christine.  
She's been renamed  
Victim Number 3.  
   
Her forearms hanging  
over the edge of the bath.  
the water dripping  
from her    
blue-black finger nails,  
well and truly dead.  
"We're finished in here"  
Yeah, Johnno.  
She's finished.  
"Don't get smart, Marcus.  
have a word    
with her kid."  
Leaving the forensics    
to their spoils  
   
"Hey Son,    
you hid in the Oven?"  
He told me 'yeah'  
the boy was scared shitless.  
"I'm sorry, son."  
My forced attempt    
to comfort a    
Twelve year old boy.  
He said to me  
'Why do people say that?  
That they're sorry.  
You're not sorry,  
you should say suck shit  
that your mum is dead.'  
The kid made his point  
he made it    
very well.  
Not a damn word    
held meaning.  
I had a job to do.