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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