Page 49 of Twisted Heathens

I trail my fingers over the faded names, overcome with pointless spite and jealousy. Why are they dead and not me? Why can’t I be buried in this ground, cold and empty? It’s only fair that we get to choose if we live or not. If someone wants to die, that’s their decision. Not everyone wants to be saved.

Sinking to the frosty ground, I rest against one of the stones, savouring the peace and quiet that sinks beneath my skin. Except it isn’t silent. Somewhere, there’s a noise. It’s tinny, almost like a muffled speaker. I peer around and my eyes land on a crouched form by the mausoleum doors, dressed in a familiar black hoodie and distressed jeans.

Eli’s headphones blare heavy rock music as he rustles in his backpack. His curly brown hair is messy and escaping from the scruffy cap he wears. Pulling a tobacco tin out and searching inside, I’m unable to look away as he locates a small, razor sharp penknife. He takes the time to methodically clean and disinfect it, with a kind of ritualistic attention to detail. Then he’s slowly rolling up his sleeve, face pinched in concentration as he studies his arm.

I can’t tear my eyes away.

My mouth waters as he presses the blade to his skin and draws it along, eliciting an immediate release. His shoulders slump and his face relaxes as the blood flows. Watching with fascination, he moves an inch down and repeats the process. It’s like I’m watching an artist, the blade his paintbrush and arm the canvas. Painting a beautiful, bloody scene of morbid proportions.

I’m so enraptured by the sight that my grip on the stone slips, causing a chunk to crash to the ground. His head shoots up and our eyes immediately connect. Fear and panic quickly melt into something else that I can’t describe. He’s looking straight at me, lips quirked in a secret smile. Like I’m some kind of voyeur to his most intimate moment, and he’s getting off on the thrill of having an audience.

Screw it. He’s clearly happy to see me.

I join him on the moss-covered steps. Neither of us speak, there’s no awkward reunion or insistent questioning like with the others. Both of our attention is focused on the knife clutched tightly in his hand. Blood streams from his wrist to his elbow in crimson rivulets. My fingers ache with the need to snatch it away.

But not to stop him.

Fuck no, I want it for myself.

I want to feel something, to elicit that sweet, euphoric release for just a second. Like a recovering alcoholic, I’m staring at him with raw need. Eyeing the prize and determining how to get some of it for my own pleasure. As sick as it is, I’m not interested in stopping him from hurting himself. I understand the need to gamble with that delicate line, somewhere between life and death. Too deep, and that’s it. Not deep enough and you’re left wanting more.

It’s a vicious, addictive cycle, and I fucking love it.

Shining emerald orbs stare at me curiously as I run my finger over his palm, daring to move higher. Circling his wrist and the blue veins there, I follow the trail up to his weeping lacerations. Spreading the trickles of blood beneath my skin, creating a trail of crimson brushstrokes. Now we’re both artists, imprisoned by this sick fascination together.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying to pull away.

His hand stops me, holding me in place as he shakes his head. That dark smile is lopsided and knowing. Fuck, he wants this as much as I do. How twisted is that? But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop me. This feeling between us, these tendrils of darkness and pure fucking sickness drawing us closer, it’s irrevocable. Uncontrollable. Nothing exists outside of this moment.

Eli offers the knife to me. My heart pounds faster than ever. I can’t rip my gaze away from the glinting steel as he cleans and disinfects it. Before I know it, my fingers wrap around the handle. My hand is still shaking and pathetic, but he doesn’t judge. Not my Eli.

Rolling the sleeve of my sweater up, countless silvery scars and gnarled lumps of skin are revealed. His gaze burns like fire and I actually enjoy it. Filled with this odd sense of pride, I want him to see my artwork. To appreciate it for himself, one cutter to another. It’s like a rite of passage, this intimate sharing of our battle scars, inflicted by the ultimate enemy; ourselves.

Everything about this is wrong.

Unhealthy. Toxic. Messed up.

But at the same time, oh so right.

The serrated edge meets my sensitive flesh. A sigh escapes my lips at the familiar feeling, seconds before taking that tempting step. Then I’m moving the knife, trying to draw blood, but my trembling hand is preventing me from getting a good grip to press deep enough. I huff, cursing the fucking medication I’m dosed to high heaven on. A few more failed attempts and the frustrated tears are threatening to fall.

“Fucking hand,” I growl.

Eli swallows hard, biting his lower lip. He gently eases the knife from my spasming hand. Giving me a long, hard look, he silently asks the question I know he can’t say out loud. My consent. This complicated, broken man wants to help me in the only way he knows how.

I’m nodding without thinking, trusting him intuitively with every fibre of my being. He lifts his eyebrows, seeking confirmation and rather than answer, I seal my lips on his. Just a whispered moment of affection, giving him a glimpse beneath the surface at the damaged girl tucked away behind layers of sarcasm and anger, who wants him to cut her when she can’t fucking do it herself.

“Please,” I whimper. “Make it better, Eli. Please.”

As he draws it across my wrist, I wonder if he feels it. This unexplainable bond between us, like kindred souls reunited at last. We’re two lone wolves circling one another, both intrigued and a little afraid. I wonder what that feeling tastes like to him.

My eyes sink shut as the release comes, hot and sharp with the bite of pain. I can’t hold back the moan of satisfaction as he repeats this action four times. Methodically, precisely. Taking his time and care.

Once he’s done, another sensation takes over. Holy fuck. It’s his tongue, gliding across the skin of my wrist as he kisses his handiwork. He laps at the blood, fingers digging painfully into my arm. Send me to hell, I don’t care. I’m fucking wetter than I’ve ever been. My thighs clench with the flood of pure arousal.

“Eli,” I whisper like a prayer.

Burying my fingers in his unruly chocolate curls, I yank hard until his bloodied lips are there for me to claim. Teeth clash with the violence of our kiss, he’s just as enthralled as I am. Grasping my face, exploring every inch of my mouth with his coppery tongue and marking his territory.