Blood poured from the wound I had just created on my hip and I just stared at it, not caring anymore. I then heard the door open and shut from behind me and my eyes burst open wide. I turned around, covering the wound on my hip. But I wasn't quick enough.
Her face went from a happy smile to a mix of surprise and anger demonstrated with her wide eyes, clenched teeth and just the aura emanating from her tall form. I could feel the warm, sticky red liquid against the material of my jeans and the soft flesh of my hands as I looked at her with a smug smile then looked down with guilt and shame and a tinge of regret.
She had her hands in fists by her sides as her feet stamped the floor with unseen prints, only heard by the loud, wooden floorboards they hit. She kneeled down beside me; her legs curved into a perfect unnamed shape, her arms draped across the black and white contrasting fabric of her pants and the chain that hung down from the hem of her pants; her baggy black shirt with a printed design of two white wolves standing in an also-white faded-out forest almost covering the long chain.
Her hands left her knees and escorted themselves to rest on my hands; which were still covering the wound. The wound itself however was palpitating as it became a scab, which I knew would then be a scar, left forever to remind me of this guilt-ridden day. Luckily however, this wound being done by nails and not blade made it so that instead of the aching lightening-pain that coursed through me when a blade rips through my thin layer of skin there is a sensation of nothing yet all pleasure of having just the simple scrape of nails against it that is done enough reveals blood vessels, then the blood itself erupts out from the tender flesh.
I kept my eyes on my hands and hers resting atop them.
She ripped my hands from the wound, my fingernails that were still dug into it just ripping up more of the skin, leaving white, prickled marks. My fingertips already coated with my drying blood as she examined the wound, looking carefully at the blood smudged all over it, most of it now brown and dry, some still splattered and red, and a little still leaking from the wound in places that my body has not patched up yet. The way my fingers shook with fear and guilt in hers, the blood on the tips rubbing off onto her palms.
I could've cried right then, with the length of guilt that I had felt at that moment, but I didn't. I couldn't. The tears gathered on the bottom lids of my eyes, fogging my vision and threatening to fall.
And they did, they deceived me as they fell, right onto the pure wound obvious on my exposed hip.
The tears of an angel, the blood of an angel, mixed together in a morbid concoction of depression and pain. This was my blood and tears. I am the angel, more beautiful than a rose and better than perfection, yet in my mind; uglier than a werewolf with herpes and Down syndrome and not even close to perfect with my never-ending list of flaws.
She saw the tears, picking up the blood and mixing with it as it flowed down my hip as if it wanted to create a river flowing down my thigh, my knee, my shin and then all the way to the bottom of my foot.
"I…I'm sorry master…" I whispered
END XP