He loved how pale lines looked on my skin. After we fuck, he’d trace his fingertips up and down the jagged, raised scars. One night, he admitted jealousy. He wanted—no—needed to be there when it happened. Who was I to deny?
I came over when the sun set. Every three nights. After his confession, he led me to his at-home office, grabbed a dull pair of hot pink Fiskars from the desk drawer and made the cuts. Not deep, but enough for warm bubbles to spill. He spread my blood with his tongue. He couldn’t wait long enough to take me to bed, so we had sex on the rugless wood floor beside the discarded scissors.
It started as lines. We kept tally of the nights spent together on surfaces of my body. First arms, then legs. After awhile, when he grew bored, he told me to lay nude on my stomach while he carved meaningless shapes into my back. Made me guess what he drew.
He liked the way I bled. It’s all he wanted. We no longer slept with each other. He only demanded I strip and lay while he found new sections of blank canvas to work with. I was constantly covered in scars, scabs. Wore pants and sweaters to keep our secret.
The cuts dug deeper with each visit. I left bandaged up, like a mummy or burn victim. I begged him to use a better blade, but he was obsessed with the pink Fiskars. Called them his lucky scissors.
I never told him no, or to stop. Didn’t want to. Sex or no, I needed him to want me. I needed to feel important to someone.