Panting. Dripping sweat. Muscles beat.
I shout, “Mercy”, the guards come rushing in and untie Marc from the pole, he falls face first to the ground. I sit down next to Marc, you can almost see the whites of his shoulder blades every time he exhales, almost. George will be proud of me, I did well. “Kiss me Marc”, I say more commandingly than pleading, he takes a minute but raises his head up an inch or two. Wow. Is he for real?
I’ve been torturing my former fiancé for the past two weeks, he’s dehydrated, covered in 5 inch deep cuts and bruises all over, caked in blood. I starved him of any comfort, be it physical or mental. I didn’t flinch once, didn’t regret any strike. Yet all this man screamed when the spikes met his skin was, “Why?”. He should want to kill me, wish that I ceased to exist but when I ask him for a kiss the man raises his head obliging.
You would think I’d be heartless to do this to the only man I have ever loved. Yes, past tense, I no longer do, I can’t, my religion allows me not. But when Marc raises his head, the taps open and the acidic liquid rushes forth, pouring down my face. I cry.
I shove his head back into the ground, splintering his beautiful face furthermore, you can barely make out those bright blue eyes beneath all that blood as he cringes in pain. Making sure he can’t see my face I pull him up by the back of his head, hair pulling and slam his face hard to the ground, again and again. And again.
When I know he’s out for sure I get him transferred to George’s cell, I’m done with him. He’ll be quartered within the next 3 days. I stand there, in his pool of blood, I feel dizzy. They want me to drink his blood. They want me to butcher my fiancé alive. Why you ask? Because I sinned. I loved. I felt. I belonged. And fuck me, if I wouldn’t do it again. I’m all about killing pretty boys.
l’amore è sete di sangue