~Warning: disturbing themes ahead.~
Ephram remembers when he used to make himself bleed.
Slow, deep strokes. Harsh and aching and beautiful.
He'd slide the razor, deep, deep, deep. His hand was steady and sure, and when blood dripped down his thigh, around his knee, across his hand, he'd whimper.
Ecstasy like nothing else could give him.
He remembers the day his mother found him. Laying on the bathroom floor, knees up and feet pressed against the cold tile. His thigh was a mass of scars and contusions and fresh blood. She dropped to her knees, and pulled the razor away from him gently.
She showed him the scars on her thighs, her stomach. Made him touch them, fondle them. Kiss them.
She whispered softly in his ear, and called him her baby boy.
Then she pressed rough lips to his, and he felt the caress of the razor on his arm.
He remembers darkness and bright lights surrounding him. The cool feel of the tile on his back as she climbed atop him. He remembers the sound of the t.v. from the living room as his shirt was pulled up over his head.
He remembers the worried look on his father's face when he came home from work that night, the concern and the strong hands that checked the deep gash in his arm, replacing the poorly wrapped bandage. His mother smiling softly behind her cup of tea, telling his father that Ephram was a big boy, and didn't need to be coddled.
He doesn't remember the sweating flesh of his mother atop him, as she tore away his boxers. He doesn't remember the invading tongue, slithering inside his mouth, causing a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He doesn't remember crying out, whimpering for his dad.
Praying he'd come home and stop her.