The room...

She saw her reflex. The mirror was dirty, as the rest of the room. Her milky skin, as cold as stone, stained by hands which were not hers. The night was calm and silent, and no one would disturb them. She waited, naked, sitting on the bed for her dearest lover, her worst enemy. He was never late. The noisy door opened, and a shadow entered the filthy room, carrying a box. It was no ordinary box; it was a box full of tools. She waited until he was ready, obedient and quiet. He placed the box on the bed and took the tools she already knew. It was about to start. She made herself comfortable and he touched every inch of her skin, gently, with his hands. A soft skin was hidden behind the mask of dirt, so he cleaned her, showing the real beauty of that piece of life. He wanted to taste her, so she closed her eyes and felt what she have always felt. After the delight of both bodies, he had to act. He took the tools and cut her legs, her wrists, her belly, her face, her hands, her feet and her back. He kept cutting until she fainted among the sea of blood surrounding her. The stains were different now, they were red. The morning after was easily dealt. She woke up in the hospital, accused by the authorities of being insane and hurting herself for the blame she felt after leaving her husband alone, dying. She knew the truth. The wounds would heal again, and she would be loved again by the only one who could do it. The one who used to make her feel what others wouldn’t be able to show. The only one who loved her. Her love, her pain. After the wounds are healed, he will come back for her, as he always does. Always…