The knife butcher
The knife was in .. moving against it's own serrations, within the shallow breaths even as his boot stood heavy. Laced and still muddy - Firm upon her chest. He poured in-searching for intimacy - the moment of maximal hurting. She tried to move but it was all struck dumb, Closed contact, cloying within the throat, like some ungurgled scream, thick in the slip of it's own choke. So Instead she closed her eyes, The last effort of will against the glare of his weight as her breath turned to crimson, as her lungs began to drown. Til nothing could rise. Her soul was scattering into a thousand places. For every part of her was a sorrow now marked in a protestation of eternal innocence, that would not release itself- except for a single fragile tear that would not cry/come . MB
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