You lounge on your uncle's stain free couch waiting for me to f**k you, which is exactly what I'm going to do. Although probably not in the way that you're thinking. You strip off your shirt in that amusing way that you always do, as if its some sort of a parasite holding you down that you just can't wait to get rid of. I on the other hand, although I enjoy the act as much if not more than you do, look forward to the part where I can put my boxer shorts back on. I lean over you and take your body, front and back, between my two hands, feeling for soft, weak spots. Your gaurd is completly down. "What are you doing?" you grin. "Nuh-thing," I chime, "Close your eyes." I put my fingers to your eyelids, you obey, I lean into my bookbag and take out the device. I pull you forward, as if to hug me, and plant the device firmly into your back. Before you can react, the switch flips on. Liquid electricity fizzes through crystal tubing. You feel the blades of a blender or weed-whacker tunnling into your (soul?). Your grip on me tightens to the point where I think every rib and inch of spine in my body is about to crack. Then you release your clutch. You let out the scream of a thousand alleycats being crushed to a blood-pulpy fur soup by a human suicide. Your scream may have gone on like this for half of eternity, I wouldn't know - for to my ears it became the sound of little singing daisys, humming birds, and happy smiling bees. Then, just as the bees and birds had formed a chorus line and the flowers were hitting the climax of Beethoven's 5th, the silence came. Pure, deadly silence that nearly stopped my heart. I began to choke. The device clicking off brought me out of it and you uncle's radio could once again be heard projecting dear dead Kurt cooing out your favourite oxymorons.
I pluck the device from the weakness of your back, seal it, and remove the attachment. I put the attachment of blades in my bag and the crystal cylander of your screams on the coffee table. The wound on your back sucks itself in until all that is left is a faint pink circle, and then nothing.
No physical scars.
You are empty, cold. You've always wanted to be like a hard marble slab, right?
"What..." you murmer, crying silently.
"Shhh," I put my finger to your lips.
You are still too dazed to fight my actions but I must move quickly. I go to your uncle's kitchen area, take out one of the huge knives you were playing with last weekend, and return to your side. I poke the knife at your crotch, "I wouldn't move if I were you." I dig in a bit, teasing "Try to protest, to cry for help. You can't, can you?"
You mearly gurgle and mutter. I drag the double-edged blade all the way down between your legs, making you resemble a 12-year-old girl. I lean down and caress your eyes with my tongue and enter them. My body sits up. Your eyes see my lips move. Your mind trys not to let the slow-motion voices distract you. Your ears try to deny that they're hearing the dog talk to you. My lips, the slow-motion voices, and the dog are all saying the same thing:
"I have your scream."