wanderingsoul
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Registered: 07-2003
Location: Wandering
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I Always Will
He pushed the tip of the blade into his skin. The knife felt like a pen in his hand as he slowly drew the tip over the skin. Not cutting deeply. That left too much of a scar. He could still see the faint images he had first drawn—back before he quite had the hang of it. But now he knew just how hard to press the blade, just how deep he could go so that it wouldn’t be that long before the image was erased and he could do another one.
He moved the blade carefully. It wasn’t like he could erase his mistakes. So he didn’t make any. If it took him forever to draw the perfect curve, well…not like he was watching the clock. And that level of concentration was just…relaxing. And that was how he felt each time…relaxed. Almost as soon as the first drop of blood ran up the tip of the blade. It was like poking a hole in a balloon—not to pop it, but to just slowly let the air out.
Sometimes he just drew the face. When he really wanted to see the details, to see the lashes on the eyes, to see the soft curve of the lips, he would just do the face. Other times, when he was feeling really edgy, he would do the whole body. It took a long time to do the body. The fingers were hard. And he wanted them to be just right. Fingers and hands, they were important. And he always saved them for last, which was stupid really because by that time his hand hurt from holding the knife so carefully. But it was the anticipation. He liked the way his skin would tingle and his breath shorten and his muscles tense. Sometimes he didn’t know whether he felt like he was going to pass out or cum.
And he could already feel the tingling in his skin. This was a whole body day.
~**~
He pressed the paper towel over his arm and watched the image start to permeate the fibers. It was what he always did. He used it as sort of a critique of his work. Had he drawn the lines evenly? Had he been too heavy handed here and too light there? A thick blotch near the top made him cringe. He always had a hard time with the eyes. Invariably he always cut them a little too deeply. It was hard, even with the fine Exacto blade, to get the details. And even if he kept them shallow, they still ran together on the paper towel. The same with the fingers usually. They were so small, delicate and he barely had a blade’s width between each perfectly carved line. He smiled. And that’s what they were this time—perfect. The blood barely touched the paper, so fine and shallow were the cuts that only the barest trace of red bled through.
But even so, the thick blotch over the eyes pissed him off. Because not only was the towel a critique of his work, it was a record of it. And unless it was perfect, it was wasted. He pulled the towel off his arm and looked at it. He swore and crumpled it up in his hand and threw it at the wall.
But the image on his arm was…he examined it closely…perfect. There was not a detail left off. From the strands of hair that framed the beautiful face to the hands, held up, wrists crossed, palms outward—in a gesture that surrendered even as it defended. He smiled. Everything was true to life—right down to the small scar over the navel. He closed his eyes and shuddered slightly. This was the best one he had ever done. But then, it had to be.
He wiped off the blade, careful to clean off all the blood. Blood could damage a blade if it was left on it too long. And the blades—good, sharp, surgically precise blades—were expensive. He held the knife up to the light. Satisfied, he placed it gently back in its case.
He picked up another knife. Of all of them, this one was his favorite. He ran his finger over the handle. It was ivory—so old it had yellowed, the intricate carvings nearly warn away in spots from being held by many hands. He traced the carvings with the tip of one finger. And he imagined holding the virgin piece of ivory in his hands, imagined making the first cut. A slow, rippling shudder rolled through his body.
But the blade…that was where the true beauty was. It was long and narrow, its sides slightly curved inward from many sharpenings. It was so thin, so fine it looked fragile. But it wasn’t. It was strong. And sharp. It was very sharp. He ran his finger along the one edge. He held up his finger and watched the blood run down his hand. Sharp enough that you saw the blood before you felt the cut. Sharp enough that you could bury the blade in the belly of a man, pull it out and walk out of sight before he felt the pain of his death. And that was what it was designed to do. No other reason you would have a blade sharp on both edges.
The blood trickled down his arm and he caught it with his tongue. It tasted metallic. He had a lot of iron in his blood. The last time he had been to the hospital the nurse had commented on that. She had smiled at him and said he must live on liver and spinach. She had been pretty, and not much older than he was. She laughed when he made a face. He had never eaten liver in his life and the only time he had tasted spinach it had tasted like dirt.
But he liked the taste of his blood.
He smiled and ran his tongue over his lips, covering them with crimson.
And he liked how his lips looked stained with his blood.
He looked down at his arm and smiled.
“Do you my lips? Do you think they are pretty? Do you want to taste them?”
He raised his arm and pressed his lips against the face he had carved there.
*Shall I tell you I love you?” He whispered softly.
He closed his eyes for a moment and traced the fine lines with the tip of his tongue. He sighed and opened his eyes. “You know I do. You know I always have.”
He pressed the edge of the blade against the image on his arm. “But you never say you love me.” He drew the blade slowly across the lips, sighing as they turned crimson.
He pressed the edge of the blade against the image on his arm. “Why can’t you see how much I love you? Why can’t you see how you make me cry?” He drew the blade slowly across the eyes, sighing as red teardrops fell.
He pressed the edge of the blade against the image on his arm. “Why do you always push me away?” He pressed his wrist against the blade. “You take all you want of me, everything there is of me, and you push me away.” He drew one side of the blade slowly across the crossed wrists, drawing the other side slowly across his own wrist, sighing as little red rivers ran down the arms.
He pressed the tip of the blade against the image on his arm. “Do you know how deeply you hurt me?” He pushed the tip of the blade into his arm, right above the small scar above the navel, sighing as the blood ran up the tip of the blade.
He pressed the tip of the blade against his stomach. “You cut me through to my soul when you said you were leaving.” He pushed the blade into his skin, right above the navel, right up to the handle, sighing as he watched the yellowed ivory turn red.
He fell to his knees. “You should have known I would never let you go.” He let go of the ivory handle and reached out his hand and traced a heart over the center of the stilled chest—sighing as he felt the warmth that still lingered there.
“Shall I tell you I love you?” He whispered softly and watched as the finger became a fountain pen, carefully writing his initials inside the heart with blood-red ink.
He closed his eyes as he fell forward, letting the fountain pen fall from his hand. He sighed and opened his eyes for a moment. He turned his head and kissed the silent crimson lips gently. “You know I do. You know I always have.” He closed his eyes and sighed.
“You know I always will.”
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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