This is a story of what I might remember when I'm in a whimsical mood and have let drink colour my memory, or it might be a tale of what I'd like to be. Either way it matters not it's my story and I shall tell it as I please for I shall know at times what the truth is behind the words and for you it will not matter.
Being unsure where to begin this, I shall miss the beginning which quite frankly can only be described as so much less than interesting as to be terminally dull. However let us introduce the people that feature in this myth, there are only two of them so the task needn't delay us long. The first by way of ego is myself, a person of no-repute and few distinguishing characteristics. I suppose for the purpose of this myth I could choose poetic license and give myself a legendary description, but instead I shall be merely me. A person with a penchant for playing with things sharp, and for the effects of such sharp things on myself or others. The other in this story is a friend of mine, a person who shall remain unidentified but who has a wonderful personality and strength of mind, as well as an honesty and openness about them that I can but envy. You may imagine us as you will for it matters not for the tale and you'll enjoy it more seeing us as you desire.
It was late of a summer night, although the night had slipped into morning a few tracks ago, the time being counted only by the noise of the CD's shuffling. How it had got this late need not delay us, but late and hot it was, and events had lead us to the point where my friend wanted sensation, particularly pain, to dull what had gone before.
I had promised them before that I would be there for them, and help when I could so distraction was called for, to forget the day before. A crop played heavily across their rear was to neither of our likings producing merely pain and not the sensation sought, so we moved to a blade. They lay themselves face down on the sofa their top removed and their black hair brushed to one side. Once sure they where comfortable and firm of purpose for this is someone I'd not hurt, I started to draw the knife in a long soft curve down their back. The silver of the blade stroking their soft pale skin in fine red caresses, following where my hand stroked. The knife touched their back in twisting curves red traceries showing the path it had taken. Here the silver edge followed the outline of a tattoo. leaving marks like ripples in the skin as though the tattoo had been dropped into their flesh.
Not held in place by anything except will and desire to continue, the cold metal was put aside and a shard of obsidian taken up, to continue patterning their back. The patterns weaving around each other in tight and complex curves, the stone biting deeper in places to call forth a sharp intake of breath or gentle groan. One hand traced the path the stone was to follow caressing the as yet unmarked skin before the shard left a crimson trail showing where it had been, leaving a pattern that contained no obvious meaning. Slowly the pattern completed leaving their back a weave of red and pale skin, a complex abstract produced from care for them and their own will. It's meaning perhaps that the day was over and that things would improve, that like the marks currently covering their back pain can pass and things can improve. Later we slept holding each other close one protecting the other, the shuffle of the CD's finally marking the time for rest.
That's what may have happened or how things could be remembered, but candle light and drink colour my thoughts, and my friend is to far away to be held and told that they are cared for. Still that is my tale and if there be lie in it, it hurts no one and the story tells the better for it.
