Choosing From the Hat

I walk into my room, she's sitting in my desk chair wearing her usual top hat and suit. Her brown hair falls past the seat, she's only cut it once or twice. The suit she's wearing fits her perfectly, and it shows every curve that I don't have.

"What did you eat today?" Her tone reminds me of a mother. My mother.

"Three full meals."

She raises her eyebrows. "Anything else?"

I sighed. "Grandma offered me a cookie, I felt bad."

"So you ate it?"

"Yes." I looked down at the floor like a toddler caught drawing on the walls.

The magician stood and approached me with perfect posture. She stopped at arm's length and held out her hat. Inside my pockets, my hand started to shake. Slowly, fearfully, I peered in her hat to see a collection of small blades from pencil sharpeners, paper cutters, and razors. 

"You can choose which to use," she said with no emotion, no anger, no remorse. Her voice was cold and empty, undoubtedly the most terrifying sound I've ever heard.

I felt tears behind my skull. "P-please," my voice shook as I struggled to choke out the few words that I could think of. My breathing became short and shallow, though I had chosen from her hat so many times before.

"I'll choose for you." 

I knew she would pick the sharpest, so I lowered my quivering hand and pulled out a shiny blade from an exact-O knife and went into the closet to begin my night.