The first cut: A bit tremulous, unsure, no apparent separation or seepage. I worry the cut is too shallow until bright beads well up; small dots swelling to fat drops the color of rich garnets. A sharp intake of breath hissing through clenched teeth. I wait. I know he is swallowing his screams; muscles bulge, strain, and his entire body shakes with the effort. Wrapping my left arm around his trembling waist I lean forward and whisper in his ear words tender and meaningless, I don't remember what. Some things are meant only for their emotion, not literal content. He draws inward, head pressed to knees, pulling the wound wider. A mouth. It looks like an open, inviting mouth: The edges slightly curled upward like puckering lips, and the blood pooling together into one scarlet trickle could be the tongue, reaching out, licking the valley between the ribs. I coax it along with the tip of my fingernail, bringing it down and around until a single drop clings to the nipple previously adored, quivers, then falls to be quickly absorbed in aged silk.

This is only the beginning. The knife is my hand; in my hand is my heart; first blood has been drawn. I draw again; clean, confidant slices, not lethal, just enough to scar, a permanent record of consummation. Years, centuries form now, I want to touch these scars, feel the raised, knotted tissue, see the white lines curving, twining, intersecting, bisecting, forming the secrets I invoked--no, seduced--from his very soul and made flesh. And...remember. Remember muffled moans and shuddering breaths as he forced his body still; fists clenched, twisting, tearing hair from the roots; choking sobs crying for mercy yet knowing none was forthcoming while I forced his heart and carved its torments in living marble. Remember the impossible heat; rising up, pressing down; meat and blood simmering together, sweet, sour, and coppery. Remember red; so vibrant and alive against skin gone deathly white from pain; beautiful crimson lakes into rivers into tributaries feeding cascades; delicate webbing like fine red lace--with each stroke the design becomes more apparent.

A triumphant cry; I throw down the knife and stand, exultant--it is done. A living work of Art. He stands, steady, controlled, turns, takes my hand--the one that wrought such beauty--and kisses my fingertips, leaving red smudges to mingle with sweat and tears. I lick his upper lip and gently bite the lower; sweet, sour, coppery.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

He

collapses

in

my