Author S. K. Nicholas

There’s a list of words pinned on the wall next to the bed, and whenever we fuck, my eyes are inevitably drawn to them. Written in French, they describe every one of my failures right down to my lack of interest concerning the current global climate. Fuelling my rage, I lift her arms above her head and bite until she snaps back in retaliation. Chewing her tattoos, my fingers link with hers as she sinks those teeth into my bruised neck. She’s not a vampire, but she sucks like one, and as much as I complain, these sensations destroy what binds me to the life I once knew. The night is a womb; it grants me passage to a chamber of my mind that tries its best to hide away in the dirt of yesterday. In a complex on the outskirts of London, she’s pressing elevator buttons at random with her back turned to me. Dressed in a little black number with legs adorned in stockings, the lights of the skyline reflect on the side of her face. She’s cute and dangerous; the two qualities I admire most in a woman, and when she acts so innocent, it makes me want her even more. Removing a piece of glass from my trouser pocket, I drag it across the flesh of my right hand until it draws blood. Dripping to the floor, she sniffs out its scent and holds my wound to her lips. Those lips- they feel so warm, and yet her kiss is like the savagery of winter. Keeping my gaze, she swallows the crimson stuff until the buildings on the horizon blur into a sea of melting faces. Like victims of an acid attack, they scream in agony as we burst into flames. This whole thing- it’s bigger than we’ll ever know, and yet as long our hearts remain in one piece, there will always be something worth fighting for. In the moments after everything crumbles around our feet, the bubbles that escape my throat smell of whisky, but I’ve been clean for a week at least. On all fours and bleeding from the mouth, these symbols she’s drawn on my chest seem to have no meaning, and yet they glow like hot coals whenever she pulls me close.