Goodnight

The first long slice was not too deep
Not deep enough
To wake her from her sleep

An open book

Open at page 23 incidentally

Fell to the floor
As she turned in her slumber
Murmuring in ancient tongues

The blood
From that first incision
A conscious decision
Not like in films or television
Looked like chocolate in the light
Of the guttering perfumed candles

If a marshmallow were to bleed
This is what it would look like
She thought

The duvet absorbed the dark rivulets

A kind of tie-dye
Oh why did we lie
Let me get you high
Free-flow pattern
Forming reason
A type of hippy thing

The second and third cuts were deeper
Longer
In length and time

Her eyes opened
Her mouth opened
Her scream
Was
Stifled

The fingers in her mouth
Almost made her gag
They tasted of . . .

She could not place it

They tasted of  . . .

The word would not arrive

The scalpel seemed to have a mind of it's own

A sudden flurry produced
A delicate precise criss-crossing set of deep cuts
Now oozing
Lines of dark brown
Flowing patiently

The bedroom brightened
For an instant
A cigarette was lit

The fingers tasted of
Melon
Melancholy
Lonely melancholy

The scalpel
Flashed
Took a lock of her hair

Suddenly
The fingers in her mouth were gone

The scream rose from within
Then stopped
Never escaping

Sharp and pointed
Close to her eye
Glinting

Her eyes
Closed
She refused to watch

Burning flesh
The cuts were cauterized

The cigarette of course!


When she awoke in the early morning
She checked her body in the mirror

Nothing
Not a scratch
  
As she left the bedroom
She did not notice

The scalpel in the ashtray
Beside the bed