We were in a tug-of-war.
Our arms, dripping with blood as we gripped tightly to the beating heart. The sickly substance, warm and molten red, against my skin. My cheeks lost a little color, and he wouldn’t take his eyes off the damned thing.
Finally, he says, “You enjoy this.”
I don’t know if it was anger because he couldn’t see me suffering even then, or if it was anger for the sake of itself, but I squeezed harder. More liquid trickled down to my elbow, and onto my dress.
“Then don’t,” he says.
I almost want to laugh. It’s too late now. Look at us. Blood everywhere, my hands shaking, his eyes so stern. And suddenly, I begin to lose focus. Sparks of light flicker in my eyes. “I can’t remember.”
He doesn’t understand. My hands begin to lose their grip.
“I can’t remember,” I say. I fall down on my knees. “Who does this belong to?” I ask. And when my cheek kisses the cool, white linoleum, stained with my own blood, I am finally wide awake.
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