Feeding Her

This is a small drabble I wrote. Don't ask where it came from or what I was eating when I wrote it (as I wasn't eating anything!) because there's no answer for it. It just... came.

Warning! Contains graphic descriptions for mature readers only.

“Can you taste it?” I ask her gently, holding the spoon to her red lips. She doesn’t respond, her eyes dull as I slip the plastic utensil into her lax mouth. She reflexively swallows, her mind not seeming to register the liquid mixture that is now making a trail to her stomach.

“I know you’re tired; we’re almost done,” I soothingly tell her, scooping more liquid up. I know she’s awake, inside there behind those lifeless eyes, as they are still moving, following the spoon as it slides across her lap. I feed her a couple more bites before setting the spoon aside and pulling out the knife. Her pupils contract as I do this, and I run a hand through her hair softly.

“I’ll take it slow,” I promise her as I lift her arm, resting it on my own as I slide the blade across the bruised flesh. It cleanly slices away, blood sluggishly surfacing, and forming numerous rivers towards the floor; they never hit though, as the tray gathers them for me. I’ll add it to the bowl, and feed her again to raise her strength.

I don’t want her to leave me too soon. I borrowed her for a year, after all.

“I love you, baby.”

-M. Hendrix

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