by Kate Allen
Comparative of love lost and the pain left behind
|She watches as the blood pools on the floor. The flow is slowing now; the blood drops falling a few seconds apart. She knows this won't be the last time the wound will bleed. Torture is repetitive. The process is slow. It's not a quick deep slash of a knife where the wound gushes until life is extinguished. It is an intricate dance with a scalpel. Each cut well placed. Blood loss must be slow. Each wound must be given time to close, to be revisited when it will hurt the most. |
As she watches the blood and thinks these dark thoughts she realizes that sometimes Pain is her obsession. Every time she visits him she gains a whole new treasure trove of wounds to reopen. Often she visits her treasure chest of wounds in those darkest hours of morning. She removes a "pearl" or a "gem" and examines it, caressing it with her fingers, prying apart the closed flesh just so she can watch it spill fresh blood. She sits in the dark and licks her wounds. As it continues to bleed, she continues to feed. She drinks deeply of the maroon wine and begins to see all that they could be; her obsession and her. She sees her life with Pain and what they would make together. She hears their conversations.
Pain becomes her lover and she begs for his caress. She can feel Pain bite her flesh. She rejoices in his feeding.