edit 12/21 - cut "The knife is in his hand."
He is crying. Grown men don’t cry but certainly he realizes this as tears stream down his face, and he peers into the alley trying to find the shadow men. They’re there. They’re laughing at him. He doesn’t deserve to die – it just feels appropriate. Not a soul in the world would care or even bother to find out what happened to him. His mother is dead, his father is a drunk. It is the perfect cliché borne into reality. The sky is black and devoid of stars. Tonight’s the night. Tonight’s the night. This is what he wanted. This is what he gets.
The girl rounds the corner from the bus stop, hugging herself to deflect the cold. She’s blonde, fair-haired, and pretty. He watches from the street corner and waits.
Waiting.
Slit, and the blood rushes from his wrists.
The staged cries of a girl echo through the empty night.
“He’s dying… please… somebody help…”
Her fur coat stains as she dives into the pools and looks into his eyes for a sign. They offer nothing.
Then she falls, a harmless slip, nothing to cause alarm. The blood greets her face and she accepts it with a giggle. She licks the crimson from her cheek and looks at the boy for approval before clawing into his stomach with sharp, trimmed nails. The intestines peek through, ripe for ripping out. “It’s good,” she says before cracking up again. He wakes with a start: “I thought you’d like it.” He grabs her lips so they pucker up and cuts through the fleshy mass with his blade (“Oh God, that feels so good”). Her mouth—or what remains of it—leaks blood and lots of it. His head joins hers and they kiss and they drink and they kiss and something is going on but no one cares she takes the knife turns slight and saws her spine wide open. Fuck me. He hears the words. Fuck me. He’s naked now, he enters her. They plummet into hysterics as blood spurts from their wounds in rich, healthy fountains. Harder, harder, harder. They take turns eating each other, fucking all the time, fucking their lives, the pain, fucking everything away. The fear is gone. Everything feels right as their heads fall off, their arms fall off, and their legs dance in the fire they’ve created. When it’s over, he smiles at her and she smiles back (they cannot speak). The last piece of meat has fallen from them.
“Your lips were good, but you are God.” With that, the first rain of the year begins and the blood drains away into a nearby sewer grate. They are dead and decaying. The fly, seeking shelter from the rain, enters the united carcasses and finds comfort in their hearts, still beating rhythmically to the sound of their death. The slow, steady pumping soothes its aching body as it slurps the moist blood and explodes into a thousand yellow maggots which proceed to devour any trace of what happened. The water washes away their crime.
