vii. blood
He reaches out and strokes her face. She doesn't move.
He brings his mouth to her jaw and kisses it. She doesn't move.
"Isn't it wonderful," he says, "to be here? Just the two of us." Still she doesn't move.
Her eyes are closed and veined purple and blue. He laughs, brushes away her hair. Her beautiful brown hair.
Water dripping on the walls. On her chest a blooming black stain, lusterless. He touches it: warm, sticky. Coppery.
Blood.
He laughs again.
"I've always wanted to lock you in a cellar," he says. "Now you're all mine."
She doesn't move.
