Written for 31-days at LJ.
June 10th, 2008: "an operatic tragedy."
It's an easy thing, to shut out the world and think of her.
The boy tastes of blood, always of blood, bitter and metallic and sharp on his tongue; and he swallows like a whore to slick the dead dryness of his throat. The heat of it pools low in his gut, makes him sick with distaste and desperate want, makes an answering fire smolder beneath his own skin.
He likes to part scarlet-splattered lips and laugh, a wildly lilting grate that serves to loosen his own constricted airways, and feel the way that gaze will narrow and burn in response.
(He laughed that day too, he remembers; remembers the way he'd wanted to scream but refused to let that be the last thing she heard. Remembers the way he'd sucked bloodsoaked fingers past his lips for one last taste of her, the way he'd giggled insanely around their lengths and vaguely hoped he'd choke.)
He keeps his mouth busy so that he doesn't breathe her name, keeps it silent like a blasphemy, a prayer; but it is always her face he sees emblazoned behind his eyes. (The hands around his cock are alike enough to pretend, when he is so close to the edge and losing control – strong and calloused and scarred and with that same vicious twist that finally makes him come apart. Games of dominance are something he still understands, even if he has forgotten how to distinguish between reality and play.)
If there are no longer reasons to live, this is at least enough to keep him breathing.
(In and out and in and out and wait to asphyxiate or explode.)