Lacerate

The walls are a creeping ivy of peeling wallpaper casting dust and shadows on the carpet. I'm curled in her lap watching the knife sweep in and out of my gaze. Everything is a tragedy of sound and lost innocence. Dried blood is in crusty spider-like finger prints across its surface. Rust grows around the crevice where steel meets plastic handle. She slides it across the soft white flesh of my abdomen feeling retribution as it opens a red tear. She leaves the blade alongside her latest creation, even as the originals bleed red into the white of the chair. She reaches for the bottle; an arms length away and dangles it from her fingertips. She glances at me briefly before taking a gulp that she swallows away. I reach up towards the numbing cognac as the cuts on my arm burn vibrant. She smirks down at me and pours liquor over my begging lips and down my throat. I taste the welcome burn and my eyes beg for more. She sets the bottle aside replacing it with the knife and begins to cast a series of fresh wounds into my thigh. My cries are just an orgy of sound to her. She lays me on the ground pouring cognac over each and every wound and licking it off as she watches the burn etch its way into my features. She kept me there, all night and day, pouring drink down my throat 'til my blood was wicked thin. She licked and lacerated me until the end.