A/N: Songfic for Grizzly's Bear's song, Knife. Listen to it if you get the chance. It's quite lovely.

And yes, is this a oneshot, but you may regard it as somewhat of a songfic.

(Can't you feel the) Knife

Those eyes.

Those bottomless, dark and endless eyes. That what started it all. Those eyes framed by dark lashes and brooding stare.

Those are what killed her. That's what chained her to him in the first place.

It started out simply, just like any other clichéd teenage romance. She sat next to him in a class. He took in her undone buttons and her short skirt, his eyes riding up her pale thigh. She didn't mind; everyone stared at her, it was normal. She was used to it.

Then those eyes met hers.

Like they say, when a pretty bastard has eyes that black, you will never ever dare go back.

...

Knife 1: I won't hurt you

The first kiss, the first lie. They fit perfectly together, like her body pressed against his or when they held hands.

It was in an old classroom, with dusty desks and walls that seemed to sag inwards. It was a miserable place, but it would do.

She'd taken the initiative. She'd pushed him against the wall, put her hands on his chest. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn't grope her ass or run his hands under her shirt like any of the other boys did.

He quickly became confident. He pushed her too fiercely, forcing her leg into the corner of a desk. She gasped in pain and surprise.

His breath tickled her collarbone. He said the lie, sounding surprised that the push had hurt her.

[She didn't believe it. Boys are painful, especially the pretty brooding ones.]

...

Knife 2: I'm fine.

This time they were in an empty hallway. He had a faraway look on his face as she talked to him about their History assignment.

She glanced at him. His expression was carefully blank, but she was good at reading people. She could see the worry tugging at the corners of his eyes, the slightest furrow of his forehead.

She held his hand, trying to find some kind of connection.

There wasn't one. His grip was mechanical, as if holding onto a doll, not a person.

She asked the question.

"Are you okay, Nick?"

He told her the second lie.

[Would you look at that, dears. Not only is he a liar, but he keeps secrets too.]

...

Knife 3: I want you.

"You're bipolar, you know that, right? Every time she's around you act like we're some platonic couple that lives in fifties, and when she's not around you suddenly change. Do you even want me?"

Lie three.

[Oh my, it seems that his feelings are located in his pants. How typical.]

...

Knife 4: She's just my sister.

She was intelligent. Her aptitude test she did last year told her she had a near genius IQ, and her teachers hated her for never using it in class.

It didn't exactly take a person of high intellect to see the signs. But she ignored them the best she could, making up excuses for them, pretending that it was just a fluke.

But it was hard to ignore. The lingering gaze, the curl of his lip, the way she looked at him.

"What's the deal with you? Are you crushing on her?"

He looks at her in surprise and says his fourth lie.

[She wasn't an idiot, certainly not.]

...

Knife 5: I wouldn't cheat on you.

And she tried – dammit, she tried her hardest to get that bastard back. She poured her emotions out, but she might as well been in a relationship with a smooth stainless steel wall.

She kissed him.

Whispered secrets into his ear.

Nuzzled his chest.

Looked into his eyes, looking for a spark of life.

But the only one who could ignite that spark was a girl with blonde-streaked hair that so clearly wasn't her.

"You're going to cheat on me." she said. A resigned statement, not an accusation.

Lie five slithered from his lips.

[Like a snake threatening to kill her with venom. Take note of that, readers.]

...

Knife 6&7: I'm okay, it's not blood.

He seemed to think that she didn't understand the world. That she was a precious butterfly that might get blown away at the slightest breeze. He shielded his world away from her, even though she could see it so clearly written onto the faces of his younger siblings.

Abuse.

But when he came to school that one morning, he pretended that it was nothing. He looked like he had hastily cleaned himself up, trying his best to hide his wrinkled shirt and dirt-stained pants. There was a bruise flowering on his jaw.

She noticed something on his collar. "Nick, are you okay? Is that blood on your shirt? What happened?"

Lie six, lie seven.

Like two needles lying on a tray. But anyone can get stabbed by their tips, forcing whatever hell they contain into the blood system.

[A double whammy of dishonesty. Pretty good, his score is tallying up.]

...

Knife 8: Yes.

"Do you want to go out to the movies sometime?"

Lie eight.

[Quite the pile he's collecting. Look at all those blades in a neat little row. Aren't you jealous?]

...

Knife 9: No.

"You're not going to leave me for a bimbo, right?"

Lie nine.

[We're nearing the end, thank the heavens for that.]

...

Knife 10: See you around.

This she'll admit – this one wasn't his fault. Maybe he was actually sincere, but she knew that he didn't even try to get her back when she finally left.

She kissed him slowly and surely, savouring that touch of calloused hands, never intruding, never going too far.

The perfect gentleman.

She breaks free. She looks into those eyes one last time.

She leaves.

He mutters his last lie.

[She isn't listening, for some reason. How peculiar. The sound of relief rushing in her ears is too loud.]

...

Those eyes aren't pretty to her any more. People say the eyes are the window to the soul, but that's just another lie. It's just an iris. With a lens, cornea, pupil, conjunctiva and whatever else she learned in Biology. The actual eye is filled with jelly and optic nerve fibers.

Just an organ, just muscles and pigments and blood. There's no soul lurking there, and certainly no emotions.

But why do his look like knives? Why are they stabbing her skin, making her bleed?

Her blood drips to the floor, matching her hair; the price of her freedom. And it's a price she's willing to pay.

And she'll never look into those knife-eyes again.

A/N: I'm really pleased with the outcome of this. Reviews are loved and cherished, but certainly not demanded.