Vile Dependency 3

Vile Dependency 3 1

I stood in the kitchen my body swaying back and forth towards the cutlery draw.2

Amy had stopped begging.3

All that I could hear was her hoarse whimpers every now and then though it did not seem to sooth my anger less. I could still hear her screaming in my mind, visions of her throwing her bruised wrist against the metal of her bed, but not having the courage to stop her.4

My fingers trembled towards the pile full of steak knives, vibrating in panic as I felt myself about to give way just like I had upon the basement stairs. I took one out from its holder throwing the plastic case upon the bench beside me, bringing the sharp blade to my fingertip.5

What was I doing? What was I playing at? This was no game it was serious, deadly serious. 6

I let the knife fall letting it slip from my fingers watching it as it fell back into the draw. This was insane, truly moronic. We would get past this I know we could, without me even thinking about what I was about to do. I did not need pain I needed her.7

I closed the draw turning my heels towards her bedroom door. The urge to open the draw again gnawing at me like a mouse to a cardboard box. I held my hands firmly across my chest like a sleeping vampire hungry for pain, hungry for the rich intoxication of blood. There was no way I could deny this any longer. I had to do this, I had to do it for her.8

I swiveled around yanking the draw open with speed. Quickly I picked up the knife I had let sit on top of the pile and laid it on the bench next to its plastic holder. It flickered in the light from the hallway, the blade beckoning be forwards calling my name, calling for the truth.9

“Just one incision Sarah, one clean cut to prove to feel what she felt then that's it.” I muttered trying to reason with myself while tracing the edge across my fingertips.10

Immediately I felt the sharp, quick, pain of my finger being sliced like a carrot right down the middle. I flinched retreating back rushing around the kitchen trying to find some paper towel before I bled to death, while dripping blood from asshole to breakfast time across the kitchen floor.11

“Fucking hell,” I hissed wondering how in the world people could actually cut their wrist and their thighs let alone making the clumsy mistake of slicing and dicing their precious fingers.12

I found a piece of paper toweling wrapping it around my fingers a few times until I could see nothing but small splatters of blood on the breathing, paper, fabric. I would have to do better than that if I was going to cut my wrist. If I reacted like that it would most certainly give my plan away. 13

I picked up the knife holding it by the handle and closed the draw shut with my thigh taking the knife and the left over paper toweling back downstairs into the basement.14

I placed the knife on the side of the basement vanity my eyes watering now more in pain from my cut more than from the tears that she had created. I turned on the tap soaking up the paper toweling, making sure that I was ready for the blood that would stream from my skin like a rushing waterfall of crimson stupidity.15

I picked up the knife taking a deep breath in as I pressed it softly against my skin putting more pressure on the knife dragging agonizingly across my wrist. 16

So this is what it felt like to let pain in?