Ink
Stains.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The dull thudding noise pulsed tediously through the small residential house like a fading heartbeat… the muted rhythm of skin and bone colliding with wood. It was slow and drawn-out; the last desperate, tortured ventilator breaths of the dying, the last half-hearted apologies of the beaten, broken, hopeless, damned—
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The sound got louder as though with a fresh burst of energy, then quieted again. It was the only thing giving life to the early morning stillness; outside, the chill autumn air was stagnant and silent, like a settling plague. There were frozen ghosts of other autumns past moaning the wind as it wailed against the decaying eaves of the roof.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Flesh meeting wood.
The repetitive echo reverberated through the old house from a cramped second floor bedroom like a straining pulse, maintaining its monotonous rhythm throughout the faded hallways; down the staircase...
Thunk. Thunk.
A whimper.
Just that single plaintive whine broke the ominous thudding pattern.
Then, suddenly, the rhythm stopped.
-
He was looking at his wrist. Distracted.
Pale skin luridly discolored by dark indigo bruises, the hideous contusions stemming from the center of his inner wrist, the soft spot where the veins all met. The violets and blues were running like ink; bleeding into each other like watercolors, and they stood out shockingly against the paleness of his skin, the cerulean veins snaking up his arms pulsating gently with a bitter rhythm not unlike the thudding which had been filling the lifeless house. Small fingers tipped with the faintest traces of chipped black lacquer trailed awkwardly over the bruised skin, sparking a flicker of pain behind haunted olive eyes. A shuddering breath, two cracked crimson lips quivered, one blink of bloodshot eyes as painted mascara lashes met porcelain cheeks, dilated pupils watching the stain of indigo spread as it clotted beneath fragile skin. Bruises, inky pools of bluish-black forming under his skin… How much would it hurt to apply pressure with one blunted fingernail— to let the glossy midnight ink spill out onto the carpet; spatter across a white paper page like a story told by stains? A spastic shudder of pain, one drawn-out breath; trembling fingers unsteadily stroking what was injured skin, a black hole in his wrist where his veins collided. A hole. There was a fucking hole in his wrist, an empty hole with no bones; another pathetic whimper escaped chapped lips- where were the bones? He didn’t have the will to peel away the skin, to find the thin wrist bones that he feared were missing.
And he was terrified.
A shaky sob, a gasp; he had bitten his swollen tongue. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth to splatter down his grey and pink girl’s hoodie and land on his torn jeans. A tremulous moan. Eyes with nothing in them but chocolate bangs darted anxiously around the room, then nearby, taking in close details like the rigid wooden edge of the desk, the slight metallic whine of the broken heating system, the creak of the chair beneath the boy’s misused body. Tattooed fingers stretched forwards, barely able to bend, tendons running directly through the variegated pigment of the contusions. A deep breath, inflating aching lungs which in turn pressed against sore ribs; a sniffle, almost robotic conviction taking over lifeless eyes… the one raised hand let fall, and the discolored skin colliding harshly with the desk’s unforgiving edge. The nearly mechanical rhythm had begun once again.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The dull thudding noise pulsed tediously through the small residential house like a fading heartbeat… the muted rhythm of skin and bone colliding with wood. It was slow and drawn-out; the last desperate, tortured ventilator breaths of the dying, the last half-hearted apologies of the beaten, broken, hopeless, damned—
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The sound got louder as though with a fresh burst of energy, then quieted again. It was the only thing giving life to the early morning stillness; outside, the chill autumn air was stagnant and silent, like a settling plague. There were frozen ghosts of other autumns past moaning the wind as it wailed against the decaying eaves of the roof.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Flesh meeting wood.
The repetitive echo reverberated through the old house from a cramped second floor bedroom like a straining pulse, maintaining its monotonous rhythm throughout the faded hallways; down the staircase...
Thunk. Thunk.
A whimper.
Just that single plaintive whine broke the ominous thudding pattern.
Then, suddenly, the rhythm stopped.
-
He was looking at his wrist. Distracted.
Pale skin luridly discolored by dark indigo bruises, the hideous contusions stemming from the center of his inner wrist, the soft spot where the veins all met. The violets and blues were running like ink; bleeding into each other like watercolors, and they stood out shockingly against the paleness of his skin, the cerulean veins snaking up his arms pulsating gently with a bitter rhythm not unlike the thudding which had been filling the lifeless house. Small fingers tipped with the faintest traces of chipped black lacquer trailed awkwardly over the bruised skin, sparking a flicker of pain behind haunted olive eyes. A shuddering breath, two cracked crimson lips quivered, one blink of bloodshot eyes as painted mascara lashes met porcelain cheeks, dilated pupils watching the stain of indigo spread as it clotted beneath fragile skin. Bruises, inky pools of bluish-black forming under his skin… How much would it hurt to apply pressure with one blunted fingernail— to let the glossy midnight ink spill out onto the carpet; spatter across a white paper page like a story told by stains? A spastic shudder of pain, one drawn-out breath; trembling fingers unsteadily stroking what was injured skin, a black hole in his wrist where his veins collided. A hole. There was a fucking hole in his wrist, an empty hole with no bones; another pathetic whimper escaped chapped lips- where were the bones? He didn’t have the will to peel away the skin, to find the thin wrist bones that he feared were missing.
And he was terrified.
A shaky sob, a gasp; he had bitten his swollen tongue. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth to splatter down his grey and pink girl’s hoodie and land on his torn jeans. A tremulous moan. Eyes with nothing in them but chocolate bangs darted anxiously around the room, then nearby, taking in close details like the rigid wooden edge of the desk, the slight metallic whine of the broken heating system, the creak of the chair beneath the boy’s misused body. Tattooed fingers stretched forwards, barely able to bend, tendons running directly through the variegated pigment of the contusions. A deep breath, inflating aching lungs which in turn pressed against sore ribs; a sniffle, almost robotic conviction taking over lifeless eyes… the one raised hand let fall, and the discolored skin colliding harshly with the desk’s unforgiving edge. The nearly mechanical rhythm had begun once again.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.