This Isn't Funny Anymore

                             He's been laying there for hours now.

                    I should know. I've been watching him the whole time.
   The knife in my hand is cold and it bites deep. At least it isn't thirsty anymore. It's had it's fill tonight. More than it's fill, I think. I went a little overboard. Maybe due to compressed anger. Who knows?
   The new lines on his flesh, deep trenches, look good. The red looks lovely in the light. The knife bites me again but it isn't my blood that drips from it's teeth. It's his.

                                            He wanted this.

           He told me so.

         Everything is fine.

                Right?

   I nudge him with my shoe. He doesn't move. Well, he does, because I nudged him but nothing voluntary. I'm scared now. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had laughed at my fears. Told them all off. Encouraged me to do it. Just a few little snips, for me, he told me. Just a few little snips....

       I nudge him again.

     His chest isn't moving.

       No rising or falling.

          No breathing.

           No peeking.

   I laughed while doing it. It was fun. I was enjoying myself, writing on his skin. And then I turned the knife on myself, wrote some more. It was fun. I was happy. Just a few little snips. The red was so beautiful in the light.... tears stung my eyes at the sight of it. I was happy. I shove him with my hands, a child trying to wake their mother. He doesn't move. He's not breathing. My own breathing becomes hard, frenzied.

             I was happy.

           Now I'm afraid.

   I did all he wanted. I did what he told me. Why wasn't he moving? Why had he stopped breathing? He told me he had it done before. Many times before. Told me everything will be okay. But everything wasn't okay. And now I'm scared.

          I was happy.

          This was fun.

           He wanted this.
          I wanted this.

          He isn't breathing.

         This isn't funny anymore.