Violet whimpered as Tate slide the cool blade over her skin. The crimson liquid rose to the cut along her stomach and it made her legs weak. It had been like this before. When things got heavy and sad and emotional and he'd cut up her skin and then fuck her brains out. Something about the situation told her there would be no fucking. All the pain did was turn her on more. If only Tate could remember and then satisfy the burning between her thighs. Suddenly he pressed the knife in deep and she swore she could feel it inside her stomach. Blood gushed onto his gloved hands; the least he could do was touch her with his skin. He chuckled at her sharp cry.
"We might just have to stitch that up." He got out a needle, which she doubted amnesia Tate would have the courtesy to sterilize. Although, it didn't matter. She bit her lip as the needled went in and out of her skin and finally he pulled it tight and tied it off. The sensation was getting dull and she wanted more. Her body wriggled under the ropes and she squeezed her legs together.
"Ah, ah, ah," he tisked, "Don't get too antsy. We have plenty more to go." He smiled an empty expression and then fled down the stairs. He didn't return for days. He must've forgotten or got caught up in remembering. Violet hoped the former.