The blood on my chest is a perfect crimson. I can feel the masochism inside me, boiling it's way up to it's limits.
Self hurt is good. But not as good as when you take a dead person's hand and pretend they were cutting you. Then you can call the police and say you killed the person in self defence. The sweet insanity.
Pleasure swells in my stomach. My eyes almost roll back into my head.
*
"Just do it," I breathe. The gang in front of me seem puzzled, "are you going to kill me or not?"
"You think we want to kill you?" The man that talked is tall, shirtless, and ripped as hell. If I wasn't so done with life, maybe I could do him. The thought sparks into a roaring flame of resignation. They want to rape me! It's not proper sex... but still. At least I'm not going to die a virgin.
He stares at me hungrily, almost. Sweat clings stray pieces of hair to my neck. My feet are glued to the asphelt beneath me as cold wind whips around us.
The man begins to reach for my belt. With one hand he unbuckles it. My skirt falls down and some of the boys whistle. His pants go next. Then my blouse. My bra and finally my pink lacey underwear. He pulls his briefs off. As the cheering begins, vertigo captures me. I feel a foreign obeject move inside me. I resist the urge to scream.
It feels so wrong, yet so right. His body against mine. His pounding pelvic movement will leave bruises. I'm hoping he'll kill me before then. I can imagine before. Cutting myself with my dead mother's hand. I will get to see her. In hell.
The object inside me is removed and I am snapped out of my reverie. He looks at me.
"You aren't screaming, scream! Scream!" he shouts. I just lay there. Looking at him.
"Whatever you do, kill me gently."
