Then
The violence was worse after Mum was gone. There were no more warnings. My house was the ocean. My father, a shark on the hunt.
You’re either the shark or the food.
The day Dad went missing, he was sitting around his homemade forge in the backyard. Heat-treating the black blade of his fishing knife until the flames were almost too bright to look at. He never knew I was there. Watching.
Hours later, my father got dressed in the dark, pulled the waders on, unaware.
I watched him leave, his severed black blade warm in my palm, his words ringing in my ears.
Always take a knife.
Months later, I craft a handle made of kangaroo bone and fuse it to my father’s black blade. The pieces slide into place like they’ve been waiting for each other.
Always take a knife.
I did.
I took his.