He had her seized down, stripped and with her bound hands and feet, each tied to a corner of the old wooden bed. He thought about putting a gag on her, but soon he realized it wouldn't really make much difference. So as he finished carefully tying the knots, she relaxed her body, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, for she knew what had yet to occur.
Time stopped, almost. Both could feel the room's atmosphere become lighter, as if moving was an effortless thought, just lingering between both of them, ready to trascend into one body or the other. Drawing the weapon took him into some sort of comatose state, like a deep feeling of nothing, of nonexistence. She noticed he handled it in a rather graceful way, very delicately, as if he was afraid to damage it.
As she felt the thinned edge caress her skin, an unconcluded inkling of fefar whispered into her mouth, but with a distant lightning it faded into a quick and soundless moan, which he found odd - being suspended in a mute reality- but, at the same time, it was a smothering pleasure.
While tenderly driving the tip of the knife into her calla lily skin (which, unsurprisingly, did not bleed), he felt his own crimson essence rain upon the naked body beneath his grip, filling up te freshly carved channels, in an attempt to humanize the dust-dead wounds.
Yes, it felt a bit arm at first, but soon enough it started to burn like a salvage fire. The woman smiled as she saw his blood pouring from his chest and into her wounds, leaving no trace in between, feeding her openings more and more as he drew on her skin, just a tad faster, but still managing to do so with but the tip of the knife, quite softly, investing all of his will and heart in every stroke and every curve of the steel feather, whether it was pushing or pulling through the tissue, for he knew this had to be perfect for them, until he suddenly stopped their masterpiece. She did not want to force her eyelids apart, because she found the lack of senses a delightful experience. The only remaining hint of senses remaining in her was the feeling of his blood waterfall pouring on her, in massive quiantities, as if his chest was an everlasting source of life. Life meant so exclusively for her that the sheets and unsacrileged skin couldn't dare to bare no stains. And like that she waited, in a beautiful, frozen painting of a reality with no discernible existence, until the man resumed his beautiful artwork, only now he pushed the weapon a little deeper within her skin, drawing yet more blood from himself with each gentle swing of his scarlet-tainted brush, inviting peace to ever embrace them, an invitation that felt so warm...
This chain-breaker, releasing her from the forseeable despondent existence, one that had seen more moons than stars in the autumn night skies and had set upon her the most despicable condition of all, was, at last, appearing. After so much pain, so many vicious cycles of losing and regaining faith, hope and will, she was being set free...
Satisfied with the results, the man felt as the large tree ouside the high, round window staring inside; the needle-cold breeze breaking in through the same window, and the breath-taking darkness of the starless night sinking in. Everything being orchestrated to prepare reality to be bent enough to allow a single, final stroke that was to be executed in the strongest, most swift movement.
She could sense him raising both of his arms well above them at the same time she felt her arms and legs disappear into a nihilistic state, and then, with one rapid swing-
As soon as the knife pierced through her neck, he could feel his blood fountain stopping for one fraction of a second; time enough fot them both to take a final glimpse of each other, before becoming one with the breeze and the night, forever ceasing to exist in our common reality.
(circa 2008)
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