I always had at least two or three knives on me, but usually I carried all six. After Josh had forced himself on me on the screened porch in front of his mom's trailer, I wanted to know I could keep myself safe. I worked at the mall and there was a Cutlery & More there that sold knives, daggers, boot knives, nunchucks, and swords. It was just the kind of place goth kids and D&D kids would hang out, especially since it was just across the concourse from the Hot Topic they'd just put in.
I had a small silver handled 3" blade with a single hand open lock and release, a 5" black semi-serated single hand open lock, a set of three, beautiful, perfectly balanced throwing knives, and a boot knife tucked into my purple Doc Martins. They went with me to work in the mall,they went with me on dates and to the club, and they went with me to church. The only place I didn't bring the knives was school. There, I'd leave them all in the glove box of my car. Every day after school, I'd drive a little bit aways and then start the process of rearming myself to face the cold, hard world.
I thought the knives would make me feel safe, but instead they made me reckless. Suddenly I thought I was badass, and there was no situation I couldn't handle. I was packing some serious steel, and I knew how to use it. Instead of keeping me out of bad situations, the knives led me into worse ones, convinced I could handle it.
(I feel like I'm ripping the words out of me. It's not like inspiration, more like dentistry. Hopefully as the medicines adjust my writing will come back to me. This is more for keeping in practice than anything else.)