It ripples between us and spikes once in a while.

The empty air that separates our skin.

His exposed back is a story. In his scars, I often see myself.

But they're not memories.

Old wounds that opens up at my slightest touch.

ಌ

We play a game today.

His body is a cadaver, my finger, the knife.

I ask him if it hurts. He tells me we are beyond pain.

But he lies. He always lies. Yet I still ask. Why is it I still ask?

Because his lies mean something and I want to know.

I lift my nails from his oozing wounds and bring my hands to his neck.

My fingers know their way as they crawl around his throat and tighten.

In a frenzy, his fingers come to join.

But they are untrained and unskilled... unlike mine.

I ask him again if it hurts. And again, between gasps, he tells me we are beyond pain.

Lies. I know that he knows. He knows what it means.

With his body, he knocks me back and I'm made to surrender.

I can feel my fingers losing strength and they slip from his neck in utter defeat.

ಌ

He holds my head down against my steel tray.

The sound of brushing fabric tells me he'll have his way.

I can't see it. I can't feel it. But I know it.

That hollow dry sound.

Forward and back. Forward and back. With my cheek glued to my tray.

He is having his way with me.

Because we are strangers.

Always and forever.

ಌ