Bookworm Turning
Penetrating her young flesh. Sharp tip of blade. Like a laser. No pain at first. Ripping through tissue shredding–“cold steel” (expression ringing true) inside her; hurting now. Slicing into bone, grating–teeth grating in sympathy. Tearing through muscle and gristle: all organs ravaged and bloody–with savaged offal, raw and fresh wasted. Butchered by no master: no finesse in the cutting–not meant for consumption–lungs drowning in own blood. Life short as temper–death quick as temper–would like to think. Maybe think too much…
In the event, actually falling on to the point–run through–of life and death (a rehearsal for something worse) flashing before her eyes. Had destroyed self, in the end, with misplaced trust, and now guilt to the hilt tearing her apart. Pray there’s no Hell. Pray dear Lord, Godspeed please (the end–no lingering)–I have peed my bed: know this–feel this–smell it: strong hot urine through the bleeding. Let the agony end. Put me out of misery–and picture–a face one; must be as I see the child passing (before my rolling, quivering-lidded, hooded, sunken eyes) in my sights. The schoolgirl–the nurse–the wife–the slut–the corpse still twitchy about what I’ve “done”–a runner. Caught up with time, changes of circumstance; subtle differences: lover–husband: for widower–see killer.
Flagrant plagiarism. Boning up from somebody else’s book–facts of death: methods–effects. Read of a blade could not only cut through flesh; but through bone too. Took this info, and honed it with my skill: doubt my story good enough to sell; but now I am armed with knowledge and sword, as well as pen. I think, even though not very articulate–can communicate the thrill of the kill–I alone knowing firsthand–blood on it. Bloody triumphant thumbprint on page, after page, well thumbed–book poring over as bleeding I slump… lost for words, in own little world cut off.
