The blood was still fresh on both our faces when he hurled me against the wall of his bedroom. The pain flashed down my spine in relentless heatwaves while his fists attacked my face, this time my own blood spilling and staining the blue wallpaper with black spatter whenever his hand rose above my head. I felt my teeth jabbing the back of my skull and clackering somewhere inside me like stray coins inside a ripped pocket.
I didn't fight back but simply shut down and let him break me, broken bone by broken bone. His fist egorcized whatever love was left in me and had now blinded me completely and utterly to the image of the monster he was, leaving my mind to baffle itself by confusing the pictures of the sordid present with the most pleasant sensations of the fake past I invented for us. The placebo effect of his lips on mine was interrupted by another carnal fit of rage as I fell to the floor and was unable to stand on my own anymore. And the pain had gone away too, somehow. Just the inner numbness remained and a wish to stay conscious through this all, to watch him take me apart with the madman look in his madman amber eyes, to stay awake long enough to rip myself out of this madman nightmare and collapse into his madman arms, covered in the sickly sweet perspiration and caught in the postcoital bliss.
Those oh, so gentle, ivory hands tossed me upon the twin bed where my neck hit the headboard haphazardly and my head hung from it like a rag-doll's when it hung on a single pendulous thread before it too broke and it fell onto the floor, rolling its way beneath the dresser where it would lay forgotten.
The haemoglobin sheen on the walls was emanating madness as it dribbled down to the creeky floorboards, the wood, in places already splintered from the wear and tear of my knees hitting it every night, soaked in the beautiful red and was now swollen with the proof of death and decay of the last bits of love I could scrounge up for him.
My ribcage could scarce expand enough for my lungs to suck in whatever air was left in the dark, little room where the walls were coming so close together and he hovered above me, pressing his knees into me harder and harder while those oh, so gentle ivory fingers flexed and tightened around my throat in places where the flesh had already begun detaching itself from cartilage and bone, separated from them by rivulets of blood and ripples of pain. There was no air left for me, no time to breathe when his lips assaulted mine, sucking the split, purple flesh, his tongue forcing itself inside, lapping and mixing in my saliva with his madman sickness, not even breathing himself. A long, laboured sigh came from the gore-red of his lips when his tiny teeth bit against my neck, nipping at the skin in the cruelest fashion, not even savoring the metallic taste of rust that gushed inside his vampire mouth like ocean water in an attempt to penetrate inside his lungs and drown him in this violence.
In the silence that followed once his fingernails started scratching my chest while tearing off the shirt he bought me earlier today, my ears pricked up against the sound of my fluids drenching the already soiled sheets from this morning where we made hate like there was no tomorrow.
Like a couple of terrible angels we looked, our wings ripped out and nothing but bloody stumps, the pristine white and silver feathers gone much like all hope of redemption. With crooked, tarnished halos we sought for each other and pulled one another closer and closer until cartilage snapped yet again and wails of pain replaced the angelic songs we never got to learn. With rust and patina catching on our petrified, iron hearts we sucked the life out of one another, like two bloodthirsty terrible angels indeed, fallen and vampiric and so completely, utterly broken. But the paramount of this entire picture was one's frenzied, feverish need for the suffering of the other, for the flowing of the precious blood. The need to make the burning love so evident that even the darkest of night could not hide it, to imprint it so deep that it reached the marrow of the other's bones.
He snatched the pants off me and just like always, without any warning his head went down and I rose my hips on instinct coiling into the bloody hollow of his mouth, pulling on the sheets, fighting off the urge to pull on his hair, the muscles in my arms and stomach flexing painfully, agonised by the inhibitions set upon them.
His mouth was on me so blasphemously, deliciously, tongue darting in and out over my hipbones, incisors sometimes biting so hard I thought I would die, then gently travelling over the softness between them, making my toes curl and the raw flesh inside my throat fight to smother a series of bloody screams.
Yet blood erupted from my mouth and onto his face, covering the coagulated remains of our crime when he pressed his hips against mine forcefully and broke something deep inside the malfunctioning mechanism of my body, making it trash and throw itself about, shackled by his lust.
His love felt like a meathook digging deeper and deeper making me go higher and higher while knives pricked, tore and cut precise lines of affection right down my vertebrae, butchering the last of the untainted skin left on me, unmarred by his ceaseless need.
And it never stopped, every thrust hurt more than the previous one, went deeper and his face burnt brighter, eyes grew wider.
And it never stopped, every thrust hurt more than the previous one, went deeper and the blood gushed faster, bones split further, the chills got colder and the darkness became ever more evident all around me.
And it never stopped, every thrust hurt more than the previous one, went deeper and his breathing got faster, hips frenzier, teeth sharper against the tightly wound veins of my neck.
And it stopped, and he collapsed by my side. And it all stopped, the breathing, the wear and tear of my raw throat by the guttural screams coming from the depths of me he tore apart. And it all stopped: his mania, our hate, the pain, my heart.
Yet the halos were never restored.
And there we were, two terrible, blood-coved angels, with stumps for wings, white feathers strewn everywhere, filthy and soiled, one's breathing so laboured, eyes repentant and concerned then finally horrified for the other did not move, did not wail or moan or bleed anymore, did not tick or tock or sigh. Underneath all the torn flesh and gore, it was white and cold.
And just as terrible as before.