Three months, four days, nineteen hours and however many minutes has passed.That’s ninety-five and three quarter days, within or without the hour.And I’m not even going to work out the minutes.

My foot taps in a nervous thud-thud-thud-thud against the computer’s case as I write this. Now my whole leg’s caught up with the rhythm, and as much as I think that it should annoy me, I can’t stop the tapping. It’s like an itch…once you get a scratching; there ain’t no turning back.It’s been a quarter of a year, and then some since my last fix.

How many droplets of rain have fallen, have washed down pavement and over leafless trees to be caught in my hair as I walk home from work?How many pictures have tabloids published of mangled bodies, forgotten bodies, and that one unforgettable image of the still-warm babe that truly horrified me, discarded in the gutter of a busy street?How many bananas have I sliced upon my cereal as a vain attempt at an energy boost in that time?Laughter.Damn.I guess that would explain why I’m feeling the way I am right now then, eh?* * *So much for the long nails. Those claws I used to love…well…my teeth have nibbled over a good five metres or so of keratin. And smooth skinned hands? The hands that tip-tap their way over this keyboard are hardly fit for a commercial. Something about my hands that I can’t resist, maybe it’s because they’re so active. Skin: dry, knuckles: cracked. Cuts and burns and bruises have inscribed a new pattern for the fortune-teller to read. And I’m always picking at them. If I’m not picking, I’m gnawing. If I’m not gnawing, then…oh shit…look at that, there’s another cut. And so the cycle goes on.Lips are also something I chew on, though that gets a little too painful at times, especially in this winter air, freezing everything up, sending lives into hibernation and slowing down the cycle. When I open my mouth to yawn, I wince. The corners of my mouth are split, it’s been three weeks, but they’ve just not got around to healing. You thought lemon juice was bad on broken flesh? Try eating a tomato sandwich with split lips and not cursing.Under my eyes, the shadows get darker by the day. And that’s not through lack of sleep…it’s just one of those unexplainable things. When I saw myself in the mirror at work last week, I stopped in my tracks. I had to wet a paper towel and wipe away the smudged eye-make-up from the delicate skin. When it didn’t come off, I was shocked. Then my wry laugh found its way out. Guess it should be expected. All this is just the outside. The wrapping. The image that sits in a content mind’s eye. But I’m scared. It’s inwards that I’m really unsure about directing my gaze. It’s inside that will really tell me how far my necessity’s got its claws hooked in me. The thing is, none of this is planned. I don’t assume that the conclusion of this is to tear and gnaw and break and famish my body and soul. This half-starved insomniac that strides through the city wearing her sombre psyche as a garment is not beyond help. She just needs her fix.* * * A fingertip traces up my abdomen. Sliding over my sternum, it turns towards my right breast, curving down towards the nipple. Over darker flesh, and the pale underside, and then breaks off in its travelling. Then it appears again, an inch or so above my belly button. Three quick strokes. A long line bisecting. A squiggle that looks incomprehensible to me as I look down upon my body.He leans back upon his heels. His fingertip’s still wet with blood.He raises it to my lips, painting me with liquid, then sits back to admire his work.Droplets are falling from the cut on his upper arm. They’re falling to be soaked into the woven strands of the rug, to be walked over by uncaring feet, to be worn away by the passage of time.His hair falls alongside his cheek, down over his chest, the end strands tickling his thigh. I could reach out my hand and brush them away, moving my hand up between his legs to caress his hardening cock.I could press my blood stained lips to his and give him back his blood as I breathe him into me.I could let the blood upon me be rubbed away as he slides inside of me, as friction builds and friction takes, and flesh would be sticky with sweat.It all comes out in the wash.The blood on the carpet will wear away to a faded stain, a nothing-mark whose significance will never be questioned.The sheets will be cleansed with ocean fresh surf and hung out to dry in the hot American air, and their history will evaporate.His blood will be licked off, be fucked off, be washed off in the time that passes for us to consummate, rest, and refresh to face the world outside us.“Blood lover.” Flash of tooth.“Always.”* * *Now one foot presses the other down into the carpet: a vain attempt to stop the habit. Fingers tap away at the keyboard, and my mind is travelling a new route. Suppression works wonders. A fleck of skin dries, curling away from the wound. Fingernails upon it, I’m not happy until it’s disappeared and my skin is semi-smooth again.Old habits die hard.That wry smile that first appeared on the departing aeroplane gifts my lips again.A softly cynical laugh curls my mouth for the briefest of moments.Hunger. Perseverance.Frustration.The blood never truly disappeared.The few microscopic fibres that didn’t vanish with time stayed within my skin, sinking deeper to pass through into me. A futon now covers the carpet with that odd dark brownish pattern upon it. And nothing that I know can get blood out of cotton sheets. It’s been three months, four days, twenty-one hours and however many minutes, give or take a second or three.Fuck it…I need my fix.Copyright.28.02.01.debra lee

By DebonyRain

I'm a dreamer...a drop of ebony in the rain...guess that's the best description, what with my cherry cigarettes and earl grey tea. I write a lot, try to inspire myself to take more pictures, play dark and bloody and odd computer games when my body's telli

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