Demon Stories

Diana: The Cut of the Burn, 1869, India

Diana

The Cut of the Burn

1869, India

There are things which people do in private which may disturb others. In the quiet, we do not think to ourselves, there is no time to breathe. You can't move a muscle without obsessing. 

With a smooth blade, the feel of the handle, I am one. My dear love is one. He hates himself so the blade is one. 

"Cut me," he asks, not a question. A steely desire, his eyes focused as the steel. 

My furtive love. My strange love. This cautious love of mine. It wants to do whatever you desire, but is it right?

There is no time to ask for it to be right. It must be done and done.

Cautiously, you offer me your brown wrist. This warm, brown wrist, slender and perfect, very fine and longing. Oh this moist, sweating skin in your anticipation. You do not want it, but it is your's, this steely blade. Your sweats tells that you do not want this steely blade, but you must have it and I do not have time to understand. 

I will do anything for you, my dear love. Anything. Anything to make up for what I can not give, what can not be done. You want the blood, the red dark blood, but not this one, not your own. 

You want mine, and I can not give it to you. But you want blood, and I can give you blood, your own. It has turned to obsession, and I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I'm so sorry, my love. I could cry to begging, but I do not have the time for you want this right now, not one moment longer.

In this, you are like a demon but I will not tell you it. I will not tell you how much of a demon you have become, you human poor morsel of soul. You can not become demon like me, but you have become demon. A part of demon. A demon monster in the human soul. Not yet full, but it will come. It will come, my beautiful babe.

In the twilight like a hatchet to your beautiful tender skin but it is only a slight slit, you moan a little bit but are still. Sullen, silent, everything. My everything. Your eyes are closed slight, your breathing slight. You are as if under a spell, and I suppose you are. Just watching me, your sunshine, your breath, your reason to live. Why am I your reason to live? But I can not think. For there is your blood, and its staining the white linen of the bed and you desire me to eat it. Not drink, eat. There is too much to drink. This giving, open, supple flesh.

So I take of you, and you close your eyes and do not see. Your eyes are closed and you see my mouth, an image of my mouth, wet and warm on your arm, all the way down my lips go and brush your cool, light feeling skin. Your warmth is all over my face, and you love that about me. You love yourself on to me, day in and day out, and this is your love, giving me this part of yourself. Your warm, red part of yourself. It keeps me awake, prevents me from sleeping. It is my everything, you are my everything.

My pink lips on your skin. Your golden tan skin, the beautiful young skin on my beautiful young lover. Your youthful blood is hot inside of me, and I never want it to stop but I want it to stop.

We can not go on like this, and you know it. If we go on like this you will die. But I think you want to die.

Please heaven forgive me, you want to die and I can not give it to you. I can not give it to you even though I am supposed to be this evil, awful thing. My poor innocent lover is suffering and I can not give him what he wants day in and day out. Oh heaven help me. Help my soul, his warm, courageous blood is in my blood, praying a song. A song about love, a song about sadness, a song about peace. 

In this euphoric moment I think I can give you what you want, your warm blood is the deciding factor, the teaser in my demon heart and brain. But the human part of me can not do it. I can not give you this life of mine, this nightmare dream. Don't you understand about it? Did I tell you about it? I can not remember because of this hot, coursing blood in my mouth. In my stomach. In my veins. 

Your blood and mine. This eternal, sad prayer. This eternal, sad lullaby of your precious, sad soul. Your precious, beautiful longing for death.