She screams until she becomes hoarse. It's the blinding pain that my knife inflicts, held by my hand, as I carve and carve away at her flesh that has her lose consciousness. The blood spills against her beautiful alabaster skin, almost making it seem like she's glowing.
An otherworldly being, if you may. The folds of her skin peel away, almost like butter would.
My mouth waters as I watch her.
She squirms and cries even while in a pain-induced sleep. The tears trickling down her cheeks in soft rivulets. My tongue flicks against a few, capturing the salty beads in my mouth, the smile curling my lips in satisfaction and humor.
Her wrists are bound. Her ankles are bound. Her neck bound as well. She's completely at my mercy. She's completely mine. Nothing will take her from me except the cruel scythe of death, but not even that until I say it's time.
So my knife continues it's dancing, carving and cutting her butter like skin. Painting it, painting her, a beautiful dark red. And her moans and groans fill the darkness as if it were a sorrowful melody played by that of the best prodigy cellist.
The sole candlelight flickers and dances, giving off just enough light so that I can watch my masterpiece unfold before me.
I have all the time in the world, so I take it as I please. No one will stop me. No one will know.
The laughter bubbles up and past my lips, the sound seemingly loud enough to rouse the sleeping beauty from her slumber and those delicate eyes flutter open to look at me. Terror mixes with confusion. Pain mixes with question. And, as those eyes scan me and the room around us lit by nothing, but a candle, she searches for a way out.
My blade slides deeper into her skin and she cries out and squirms once more and I love every second of it.
My fingers lace through her long, silky strands of hair and she jerks away from me, but not before I grip on tightly causing her to flinch from the pain. My grip tightens and I yank her head forward so that she is only centimeters from my face.
Her nose crinkles at my foul breath as I breathe on her. As I mark her. As I make her,
"Mine."
YOU ARE READING
Carvings That Bind
Mystery / ThrillerAlyssan Bogard didn't live a long life. She died when she was 17. All she remembers is waking up in her backyard. She has no memory of her death and only has a vague idea about what happened from what she's heard while lingering around her family an...
