Knife

To love-

Time had softened the man's figure. Sharp angles had long since been replaced with gentle curves. At his peak, though, he had seen a great deal. The pocketknife in his hands was a testament to that. He clutched it like a security blanket to his chest, and seemed only able to relax when it was firmly tucked between his fingers.

We all have our scars, I suppose. His are just more visible than most. He tries his best to smile despite the pain, greeting new recruits from behind his father's desk. The father he had lost so young that some nights he couldn't quite remember the curve of his face or the stubble on his chin. Those nights were the hardest. He couldn't change the past, but maybe... just maybe... he could help the two boys kneeling before his chair.

To hate-

He was a piggish man, with a stubby nose and skin that glistened with sweat. He smelled of death, and had the peculiar habit of running the tip of a pocket knife under each fingernail, grinning from behind a black mahogany desk.

This was a man you would do well to not run afoul of. He was just a bit too familiar with the blade in his hands. He always made the children kneel when they entered the room, if only to put them in their place. The kids were too young to realize they worshipped a man made of lies. He had hurt so many in the name of so-called salvation. This man wouldn't know salvation if it came knocking on his door.