THE EDGE

For the last month, I've been sharing my bed with knives. Some are short and thin, made for skinning animals, some are thick and long, like the kind that the butchers use to split bones, some are efficient and heavy, some are small and simple, but all of them, each and every one of them, are incredibly sharp, captivatingly attractive, brilliantly shiny, and hard to believe but they are also infinitely affectionate. I love sleeping with them, feeling them caress my skin all night long. As my naked body rolls over them, I shiver from head to toe, I tremble like a teenager boy who is about to make love for the first time in his life, my heart opens to all the songs of the earth like a fig cracking and splitting in autumn, or like a mango welcoming June with a large tear on its bright gold skin. I love this quivering, this vexation, this tremble, and the vibration that comes with it.

Living alone, when I'm with my knives, I at least escape the feeling of loneliness. I'm grateful to them for allowing me to deceive myself. Knives have also taught me that there's no difference between sensing something and thinking you're sensing it; their shiny steel faces, the compassionate arms they hide behind those facades, their handles that give confidence in the palm of your hand, the tiny claws at the end of the handle that imitate swords, their envious magnificence that appears where the light hits and reflects… The fact that they can only harm me when I want them to actually elevates my soul, caresses me when I need to be caressed the most; puts an end to my resentment towards myself, like a lover who solves our prolonged, tangled problems by pressing her skin to mine and curing all the wounds at the most unexpected moment.

I feel dangerous these days, so I avoid going out, looking at people's faces, and I try my best not to talk to anyone outside. I live at home, surrounded by books and DVDs of my favorite TV series that will take days to watch; or I don't live, I get lost, I hide in the plain sight. Still, like every secret, I need to be torn apart just a little, or I'll vanish into the unknown, along with my hidden truth. I'm like a child lost in the woods who, when he realizes it, isn't bothered in the slightest, quite the opposite, his self-confidence skyrockets with his solitude. Books, in fact, draw me in like labyrinths; they say, "Come, let me cover your shivering body," "Come, disappear into my chest and confess your fragility" "Come, become someone else under my arm," "Never miss the life you left behind again." The series, which I watch thirty episodes in a row and fall asleep to, promise me a second self: a life unlived, an unreachable happiness, the triumph of the good, the endless struggle of the oppressed, the ruthless control of the oppressors. I feed on the pleasure I derive from this artificiality. Days go by, and sometimes I haven't said a word within the walls of my home. Silence melts me like the flame melts a candle; I'm one of those corners that the blazing flame can never fully illuminate. I have neither the strength nor the will to demand more.

I'm also experiencing the joy of having money but being womanless. Being self-sufficient, not needing anyone, having full control of everything, being fully aware of all the ropes that used to pull me and push me in the past. Ohhh, how blessed I am, what a charm! Like those Hindu deities, being able to destroy and rebuild the world I live in whenever I want, perhaps gives me a sense of divine grandeur. "I created this life," I tell myself. "I can burn and destroy." I'm consumed by my own justice, my own fascist ruler. My knives and me! I know it's a wild and cruel arena outside, a world in which power trumps effort. Not being able to stand this is isolating me, weighing me down like a sponge absorbing water. I can't support myself walking the streets or trying to explain my troubles to someone. "What's the need?" I ask afterward, why all the strain, all the pressure, all the twists and turns to please others. That's why I lock myself in my house and live out my own justice, instead of going out and being a despot, harming others in the short term and hurting myself in the long.

I know well that when injustice rules a place, those who subject you to justice are wronging you. I've lived it; I'm experienced in this matter. The rest is infiltration, colonizing evil brokers, their armies sneak in every crevice, their institutions acting like gangs and thugs! Injustice spreads like cancer, once it creates its own vicious cycle. When those seeking justice realize that injustice is more valued, they easily switch sides, saying, "Why are they getting it, but I'm not?" and attempt to establish their own justice. Knowing you can't change corrupted souls is the worst. This truth is like an apple plucked from its branch starting to rot; the opposite is unthinkable, undeniable, and untenable. Like a river that can't flow in reverse, it allows only the observer to watch it, leaving you with two options: take to the streets and fight, or lock yourself away at home and punish your own being, satisfying your desires with the cheapest methods you can find. My knives masterfully accomplish the latter.

All of it; my fondness for knives and my belief that this affection was my salvation, started with a fight with my boss at work. We had argued about something trivial, but the words he said hit me hard. He barked at me like a rabid dog, hurled harsh insults at me, the likes of which I had never heard from anyone in my life, from my mother to my father, from my most bitter enemies to the closest friends -who know all my soft spots-, as if dumping a bucket full of spit and pus all over my head. For some reason I couldn't make my voice heard, I couldn't open my mouth and say a few words to the man's face. Like a piece of ice that shrinks as it melts; no, no, best of all, like a big toe curling inward when it's cold, I too shrank further, taking refuge in the folds of my stomach. The more he spoke, the hatred inside me turned darker, looking for an opportunity to explode and drown the whole world in filth. Despite this, I kept calm; I didn't lose that damned silence, that famous respectful stance that was eating me up, ruining my life, the source of my unhappiness and despair. Even being right and coming out on top felt unfair at that moment for some reason, an unbecoming snobbery, a false shadow of a world that didn't belong to me. As if I defended myself and crushed the boss, I would also be saddened and devastated by the brutality I'd displayed. I call this "the unbearable lightness of being a victim" now. Back then, this sinister malady didn't yet have a name, it had no title, but it had taken root in my cells like a seed. It was simply waiting for the opportunity to emerge and invade my soul along with my body.

I went home that evening with a heavy stone in my stomach. A weight that had taken over not only my stomach but also my mind. The crushing feeling of humiliation made my hands and feet tremble. I felt like my skin was being torn from my body, ripped from one place and carried to another. It was as if the boiling water had blistered my softened skin, causing a mass of skin to pile up around my feet, layer upon layer overlapping like a drawn curtain. It was limp, like the folds on the necks of very fat people. The ends of my arms and legs were becoming numb. I was filled with sediment, dregs with which to build sand and mud castles. A little feminine, a little lustful, a little enthusiastic, but mostly guilty.

I went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water to calm my nerves. For some reason, I too have this faith in water. I suppose we believe the lubrication stemming from the water will release the lump in our throats and push it down. I drank the water in one breath, scraping my teeth against the glass, savoring the soft slickness of the glass with my tongue and lips. As I was putting the glass back in its place, somehow the back of my hand —the feet of the table were already shaking like a cumbersome washing machine placed on a rough surface— hit the knife on the edge of the table, and before I could even react, the falling knife stabbed into my foot. I let out a deep cry of pain, or rather, the thought of pain. But the knife hadn't actually penetrated my foot; it had lodged itself between my big toe and the toe next to it, peeling a tiny bit of skin and drawing a single drop of blood. There was no serious injury that would cause any pain. I slowly pulled the knife out and retrieved it from the parquet floor. I wiped the blood from my foot with a napkin and went into the living room. The knife, licking through my skin, had sent a strange tickling sensation through me. Deep down, I longed for the same experience to happen again. Let the knife fall again, pass between two other fingers, and make me enjoy the same sweet pain. A fabricated belief arose within me that a firm but unbreaking touch could be a healing tool. It would be harsh, it would happen suddenly; it would strike me without warning, without my permission, without my will or decision. It would strike, but it wouldn't be life-threatening. I was searching for something like a slightly-bitten nipple during lovemaking, like the tongue between the threatening teeth of a lover during a kiss, something I hesitated to seek at other times. Pain would lead to pleasure. I wanted it to happen so I could wait for the next one, dream of the next saccharine pain and find happiness.

I took the knife and ran it over my skin. Just as we can marvel at the tickling power of a feather despite its weakness, we should also marvel at the caressing power of a knife despite all its harshness! I lightly ran the knife over my arms, legs, and face. Sometimes I brought the sharp edge to my nose and ears, sometimes I rubbed the blunt side against my fingers. The pleasure intensified, a cold but sincere threat. This knife could be a friend whose sincerity I could trust, stimulating me gently and harshly, scratching my skin when the time came, stroking my back with its blunt side when it was time. Like a kitten, it was testing me, testing my trust in it and whether I would reciprocate that trust. I played with the knife until late, thinking about my—possible—relationship with it. When I fell asleep and lay down in bed, I realized it had become a refugee in my mind. It had nowhere to go, and it couldn't get away from me. Then I realized, I didn’t have a choice anymore. I got up, picked up the knife again, and placed it on the bed. I wasn't as frightened as I had been at first, but there was still a vast abyss at the edge of my bed. A thorny trap was around me, restricting the confines of the bed and keeping my mind alert! I had turned my world into a voluntary prison camp surrounded by electrified fences.

I couldn't sleep soundly that night, torn between fear and hope until the sun filtered through my window, but when I woke up the next morning, I was no less refreshed than I had been the morning before. I was the same, and determined about one thing. I dressed immediately and set off. I went to my office and handed in my resignation letter. I collected my receivables from accounting department and headed out into the street. The sun was now warming me differently; people looked at me differently, even children were playing their games differently. The awareness that all these differences were mere shifts in perception prevented me from being deceived. First, I went to a park, sat, and watched the pigeons. Then I walked to the market. I bought dozens of knives from a shop that sold all kinds of knives. I returned home with dozens of knives, ranging in size, color, and purpose, from short fruit knives to cleavers, from utility knives to switchblades, from Swiss army knives to machetes. I locked myself in and pulled the latch like I was hiding a hostage in my own house. I took all the knives I'd bought, one by one, out of my bag. I arranged them neatly on the table. I went to the kitchen and added the other knives in the drawer to my new purchases. The sight was exciting. I wouldn't have to leave the house for a long time. I would create my own punishment, my own entertainment, and blend it with my own justice.

I laid one of the machetes lengthwise on the bed and lay down beside her. She was so peaceful, so serene, even I envied her, her gleaming body rivaling even the most beautiful women in the world. The gray of the steel that began where his thick wooden handle ended symbolized not power but clarity. “Don’t come near me,” she would say. “The moment you step away from yourself, you’ll fall into the hands of the sharp blades of knives,” she would warn. “What are you looking for in us when the abyss itself lies deep within your soul?” she would ask. Driven by the midday heat, I drifted slowly to sleep, practically suffocating. When I woke, there was a small scratch under my elbow. I ignored it. I turned on the television and watched the news, wanting to know what had happened in the world while I was serving my sentence. I went into the kitchen and prepared a delicious meal from the ingredients in the cupboard. I spent the night doing the dishes and laundry. That night, I slept with a long butcher knife, made for slaughtering cattle during the religious festival of Eid al-Adha. Once again, I felt a sense of fulfillment, a strange sense of saintliness, an unsupported belief that my head had reached the heavens. I drifted off to sleep, imagining the deeds that knife would have done, the blood it would have shed, if I hadn't taken it, into the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

When I woke up next morning, I had a deep cut on my foot. Yet, I'd mistaken the pain for a dream. Even in my dreams, I'd questioned whether what I'd seen was a dream, but for some reason, I couldn't react, couldn't move. The bed, which had absorbed my troubles, my insomnia, and my panic for years, had now sucked my blood, my very soul. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I washed my foot and wrapped it in clean clothes. Then I went to the emergency room at the nearest hospital. The nurses closed the wound with eleven stitches, gave me two bottles of antibiotics, and sent me home. They didn't ask what caused the cuts on my foot. Even if they had, I wouldn't have answered. Was it because I didn't want to answer? Or because I wasn't sure I knew the answer? Besides, if I had, would they have understood that my life had recently become a punishment seeking its guilt?

Maybe I should have stopped the knife fantasy right there. I should have ceased it immediately. I knew my hesitation was pointless. It was impossible to give up knives. Sleeping without them, a night without them, would be the worst thing I could do to myself. That night, I slept with two knives. I put one on my right, the other on my left. Lying on my back next to them, I listened to my heartbeat as I waited for sleep to come. How was it that this heart, thumping so hard, went unnoticed at other times? And yet, it was so close to us, so within us, so active! Or are we the ones living far away from it? Despite the noise coming out of my chest, I slept peacefully. By morning, I was completely fine; I couldn't find a single scratch on my body.

So, I was learning to live among the thorns, to breed my demons and walk on the ground they vomited up, without a single drop getting stained on my trousers. In short, what I'd never learned in my entire life: knowing my limits, not encroaching on others' boundaries, and of course, educating myself, bending and twisting, being flexible, slowing down… Intoxicated by this success, I increased the number of knives to three, four, and sometimes five. While I sometimes suffered deep cuts and scratches, they were never life-threatening. My foot healed in the meantime. I was proud to have carved out a place for myself in the silent, harsh world of knives. For they showed no mercy, no contempt or insult. The knives were like a stern mother, slapping and retreating, locking me in a dark room and setting me free, in the end always leaving me with profound lessons to learn.

A month has passed, and during that month, I've only left the house three times. I order the ingredients for cooking from the supermarket downstairs, and an apprentice brings them up to my door. I do my own laundry and dishes. I've also turned off my phone so no one will bother me. The money in my pocket will last at least six more months. I don't know what I'll do after that. I'll probably find a job and work. I'll do as I'm told, I won't say anything, I won't object, I won’t complain. After all, I have knives waiting for me at home! As long as they're there and they make me happy in bed, life is good for me, too.

And please if one day you encounter me, don’t try to give me lectures on life or shortcuts to happiness. I learned enough and I am already happy. Let me stay like this.

 

2013, Istanbul