The Kiss that Goes Deeper than Skin (OR: Angst, Angst, Angst)
Okay.
For ages, I've had this image in my head of Mal and Polly in bed together, and of Mal clinging to Polly and pleading with her:
"Please," she whispers. "Hurt me. (Break me.) I need this."
But I don't know if this (the following) was the way to deal with it.
Or if it's even any good.
I'm trying (I think) a new technique (for me, at any rate) wherein the thought process and the actions are... kind of separted... Uh... yeah. Anyway. Read it and see.
Your suggestions and your help would be greatly appreciated. :-)
The Razor's Edge
Why do we do the things we do?
Slip from the bed, tread softly so as not to wake her.
Why do we make the choices we make?
Lift the water jug from the basin, and take the razor from its hiding place.
Why did I join the League of Temperance?
Turn the handle, step onto the balcony. Cold stones underfoot, the touch of night wind on skin.
If I hadn't, I might never have left my family.
Perhaps I'd still be hiding my affections in shadowed rooms, aching for the kind of trust that isn't born of necessity.
Maybe that's why I did it. Because anything seemed better than where I was.
Maybe it was because gasping and sighing in the darkness, pawing at women I hardly knew, or pretended to hardly know, was nothing like what I needed. The Ribboners at least talked to each other, helped each other through the change.
Maybe it was because after ten years of being treated like nothing, like less than nothing, I had learned some empathy for the people we drank from. People who were worth less than nothing to my family. People like me.
People. Like me.
The blade unfolds, snick, snapping into place.
If I hadn't, I might never have met her.
Or if I had, what would I have done?
Drained her dry just because I could? Because a meal is all the better if it's pretty to look at, to touch? Would I have let her try to get away? Would I have enjoyed it more if she'd fought me? Would I have cared?
Would I have kept her, afterwords? Brought her back to be a living Asphodelle? A pretty doll that let me kiss her lips and drink her blood? Would I have made a pet out of her?
Roll back the cuff. Breathe out.
What did I give up?
Human blood, as it turns out, was the easiest.
At least, in the sense they mean it when they talk about it in the meetings.
I haven't been to those in years.
Bull's blood, rat's blood, horse's blood. They all have their own subtle nuances.
The thing about human blood, though, is that humans look enough like us, act enough like us, to be appealing as more than just a meal.
I remember hunting, beckoning the men who followed me with their eyes, making their hearts race and their breath quicken with a smile, a touch. They way they would strain towards my mouth, not caring what the kiss would bring.
I used to imagine what it would be like to have that effect on a woman, a body I wanted to touch.
Steel blade to flesh. Breath in as the skin parts, stinging.
What did I give up?
The kiss that goes deeper than skin.
I miss soft lips on my shoulders, my wrists. I miss the sharp, tearing pain of their teeth, the pull on my veins as they drink from me.
Blood welling in the crease.
It makes her sick to think about it.
The taste of blood on my tongue, bitter with memories.
So I do this instead.
Cut open my flesh and lap up my own blood for the weak pleasure it gives me, for the chance to feel myself bleed again.
Footsteps--
"Mal? Why are you- Oh, gods..."
The clatter of a razor on the flagstones. Turning--
I see her face go still, her eyes lingering on the red wound, already healing.
I see her trying not to shudder.
Her own bare feet on the flagstones, her hand closing over the already-fading scar
"Why?"
Say it, though it hurts more than the razor.
"...Because you can't."
The moon is setting, somewhere. She holds me close and kisses me in the night.
For ages, I've had this image in my head of Mal and Polly in bed together, and of Mal clinging to Polly and pleading with her:
"Please," she whispers. "Hurt me. (Break me.) I need this."
But I don't know if this (the following) was the way to deal with it.
Or if it's even any good.
I'm trying (I think) a new technique (for me, at any rate) wherein the thought process and the actions are... kind of separted... Uh... yeah. Anyway. Read it and see.
Your suggestions and your help would be greatly appreciated. :-)
The Razor's Edge
Why do we do the things we do?
Slip from the bed, tread softly so as not to wake her.
Why do we make the choices we make?
Lift the water jug from the basin, and take the razor from its hiding place.
Why did I join the League of Temperance?
Turn the handle, step onto the balcony. Cold stones underfoot, the touch of night wind on skin.
If I hadn't, I might never have left my family.
Perhaps I'd still be hiding my affections in shadowed rooms, aching for the kind of trust that isn't born of necessity.
Maybe that's why I did it. Because anything seemed better than where I was.
Maybe it was because gasping and sighing in the darkness, pawing at women I hardly knew, or pretended to hardly know, was nothing like what I needed. The Ribboners at least talked to each other, helped each other through the change.
Maybe it was because after ten years of being treated like nothing, like less than nothing, I had learned some empathy for the people we drank from. People who were worth less than nothing to my family. People like me.
People. Like me.
The blade unfolds, snick, snapping into place.
If I hadn't, I might never have met her.
Or if I had, what would I have done?
Drained her dry just because I could? Because a meal is all the better if it's pretty to look at, to touch? Would I have let her try to get away? Would I have enjoyed it more if she'd fought me? Would I have cared?
Would I have kept her, afterwords? Brought her back to be a living Asphodelle? A pretty doll that let me kiss her lips and drink her blood? Would I have made a pet out of her?
Roll back the cuff. Breathe out.
What did I give up?
Human blood, as it turns out, was the easiest.
At least, in the sense they mean it when they talk about it in the meetings.
I haven't been to those in years.
Bull's blood, rat's blood, horse's blood. They all have their own subtle nuances.
The thing about human blood, though, is that humans look enough like us, act enough like us, to be appealing as more than just a meal.
I remember hunting, beckoning the men who followed me with their eyes, making their hearts race and their breath quicken with a smile, a touch. They way they would strain towards my mouth, not caring what the kiss would bring.
I used to imagine what it would be like to have that effect on a woman, a body I wanted to touch.
Steel blade to flesh. Breath in as the skin parts, stinging.
What did I give up?
The kiss that goes deeper than skin.
I miss soft lips on my shoulders, my wrists. I miss the sharp, tearing pain of their teeth, the pull on my veins as they drink from me.
Blood welling in the crease.
It makes her sick to think about it.
The taste of blood on my tongue, bitter with memories.
So I do this instead.
Cut open my flesh and lap up my own blood for the weak pleasure it gives me, for the chance to feel myself bleed again.
Footsteps--
"Mal? Why are you- Oh, gods..."
The clatter of a razor on the flagstones. Turning--
I see her face go still, her eyes lingering on the red wound, already healing.
I see her trying not to shudder.
Her own bare feet on the flagstones, her hand closing over the already-fading scar
"Why?"
Say it, though it hurts more than the razor.
"...Because you can't."
The moon is setting, somewhere. She holds me close and kisses me in the night.