Stabbing My Open Wound
It's dark. I don't know where I am. I'm sitting up, leaning against something cold and hard: it might be a wall. My legs are sprawled out in front of me, and my arms hang limply at my sides
My feet and hands feel cold, but my left side burns with an intense heat. A flash of pain shoots through my body, centering on my side.
I move my right hand over my body to gently place it where the pain is originating. To my surprise, it feels moist. I pull my hand away, and in the dim light, I can see my palm is covered in dark red blood.
I look down at myself and I see the awful gash cut into my side. It doesn't appear to be all that deep, but it bleeds slowly and steadily.
My hand drops to my side again as I lean my head back and close my eyes.
Nothing happens for a long time when suddenly another pang of searing heat and pain flashes through my body.
My eyes snap open to see you kneeling next to me, a knife in hand. I look down at the blade and I see that you are slowly dragging it across the wound, cutting the raw skin deeper.
I struggle to fight back, but it's as if my arms and legs have been turned to lead. I can't move … My chest feels heavy and it grows harder to breathe.
I feel you starting to make another pass over my wound with your knife, and I bring my eyes up to meet yours. I look into them pleadingly, hoping to find answers.
But, their hazel depths reveal nothing.
I try to speak, but I can't. Why can't I move?
Your eyes hold me, and your lips move.
"Poison," you say softly.
It's the last thing I'll ever hear.