At Death's Door

I marveled at how her skin opened at the light touch of the knife. Blood instantly oozed out, staining her white skin as I pushed the knife deeper. She screamed in agony and I watched as pain remains etched in her beautiful face.  I smiled. How I wish she doesn't die too soon.

I turned to her other thigh and started another wound. She only whimpered. Not loud enough. I pushed the knife deeper until I felt the muscles underneath her skin. She cried louder. I moved the knife to hear more of her anguished screams. What a beautiful sound. I would love to slit that throat. But not now. Not yet.

She whimpered as I pulled out the drill from her arm. The floor is already flooded with blood but I am more than pleased that she is still alive after 2 days of torture. She is tough but I wonder how much more pain can she take?

"Why are you doing this?" she asked in a weak but defiant tone. Something I learned to love about her.

"Because I can"

I am addicted to it. The sight of blood. The sight of fear. The sight of pain. It reminds me of what I cannot have. Of what I cannot feel.

"Just kill me," she cried in desperation.

But I can't. I am only to inflict her pain. Death is her choice. And I wonder why she chooses to live everyday. She can easily yield to death. Or was it hope? But hope is such a treacherous thing and it is often empty.