What is wrong with you?

how disgusting.

Clean yourself up boy, you'll stain the bed!

Yes sir.
Yes sir.
Yes sir.
I love you sir.

This is what love is.

Isn't it?

Yes of course.

Where one person is hurting the other and the other helps to hurt themselves.

Sounds right to me.

He giggled, collapsing against the sink, watching the tiles turn red and orange and prettyprettypretty colours.

His hair has been stained.

What a shame, he liked his hair.

He could see it though, such pretty rubies, dripping over his body, tracing the curves of old scars, running over the ridges, nearly invisible against his pale skin until the bright crimson beads kissed them.

He likes blood, beautiful herald of pain, the pain that he did so crave.

Mr Alaska whatever is wrong with you?

How many times had he heard that?

Everything
Anything
Nothing
YOU.

he let it run down his fingers, lifting it to his lips, tracing them, pale skin and ruby lips, some sick geisha.

His fluorescent eyes gleamed, colours twisting and twirling, such bright ruby, not as bright as the trails on his skin, could anything be?

Water running, the shower, blood watery as steam filled the room.
The water stings his cuts like each is new, and he gives a shudder of pleasure, loves it more than he loves anything, that pain.

Those cuts.

The scars.

...

The Blood

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