The words are red, written across the paper that is my body with the most beautiful of pens. My trusty blade – gleaming, sharp, and ready to obey my every command.

SLASH

The author in my head dictates and the pen follows – like a conductor directing the orchestra of my pain. My beautiful pain . . .  I love it; I'm addicted.

SLASH

            The red ink is beautiful against my ivory paper. It flows across the torn skin like a river – a river of suffering and release. It was trapped beneath the skin, but I have freed it. I have liberated it with the proper words, and now it runs down my arm, dripping onto the floor. It's pretty – mesmerizing, even – and I can't help but watch. Perhaps I am not a writer after all, but rather an artist.

SLASH

            One more swipe of the blade and I feel a surge of liberation – I've found the spot. The ink flows plentifully, providing me with enough to write my story. My pen is moving more surely now; it has abandoned mindless cuts and meaningless scribbles for the words that I have now found. Beautiful words, they are – words that I carve into my skin, filling the pages with my story. This is my magnum opus – my greatest work.

SLASH

            Pain. Suffering. Beauty. Release. This is my story. And like all great writers, I will be published. Oh yes, they will remember me. They will read my story and write about me for years to come. Eventually, I will be forgotten, but until then, I will have my own spotlight.

CLICK

            Through the haziness of my ecstasy, I hear the door open, then close.

            "Kibum? Oh god, Kibum what are you doing?!" The familiar deep voice floats across the room and fills my ears.

            Jonghyun.

            Every writer needs their inspiration, their muse, and he is mine. Ever since he came into my life three years ago, I haven't been able to stop writing. Our story has not been an easy one; there have been countless villains in our tale – those who would keep us apart, those who scorn our love – but, as it is in any, love will overcome all odds. And now we will have our happy ending.

            "Jjongie," I coo as I lift my pen to write the final chapter in our saga on the last piece of untouched paper, the piece I have been saving for the end: my neck. A gentle sigh escapes my lips as I hit the spot on my neck, and more of that beautiful red ink gushes forth, flowing uninhibited over my neck, filling the page with the ending of my story.

            "Jjongie," I call out in a strangled voice as he rushes to my side and cradles my head. I know he hates my profession, but I am a writer and this is what I do. I write stories that every will read, and no one can erase. A delicate but twisted smile is written on my lips and my trembling hand presses the blade – my beautiful pen – into the palm of his hand, struggling to curl his calloused fingers around it as the final words in the ending to my story fight their way out through my stiffening lips.

            "Write the sequel, Jjong-ah."