The Harvest

Her hands were shaking, the blade grasped tightly in her right fist. She nicked herself, and jerked the razor away. A thin line of blood drew down her left forearm, dangled above the bathroom tile.

"Christ. Just do it, Mare." She settled herself. Breathed. In, out. Again. Mary narrowed her eyes, focusing on the moment past the slash of the razor, past the pain, and on the glorious flood of crimson. The ecstacy which comes from serving Matthius, gazing at him with pious adoration as he bathes in and feeds on her essence, her life-giving blood, flowing from every vein, pumping through every artery.

She smiled. She would do it for him, he whose name defined him as a gift from God.

Mary raised the blade once more, recognizing herself in its reflection, and with deliberate, even force, sank the edge deep into her arm. She suffered no rush or reaction to the attack. She worked further, opening pulsing gateways in her thighs, and lastly, her neck. Her body slumped into the tub, the plugged drain disappearing underneath the growing pool of gore. Her panties and bra soaking red in the cascade.

As her brain starved, her heart fluttered and slowed, her eyes lifted to the ceiling. She prayed one last time, offering her soul to the care of Matthius, her saviour. May he gain strength from my sacrifice, amen.

The attendent approached the tub, nudged Mary gently. He checked for her pulse. Nothing. He lowered the siphoning apparatus from his shoulder, lowering the tip of the vacuum hose into the warm, thick liquid. The edges had begun to clot, so he scraped down the ring on the tub as the machine drew up blood into its refrigerated storage tank. He recorded the date, series number, age and gender of the donor.

Matthius would probably access this supply in a few months.

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