Ink - horror

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Birmingham, England, 1872

The flow from the nib of my pen is smooth on any surface. The barrel sits perfectly in my fingers and the silver band around the ivory-white grip catches the lamp light in such a delightful way. I’ve not needed any other writing tool since I made this, of real bone. Though my wife, my biggest critic, is such a traditionalist. She argues, of course, that I should write in black ink, as is the modern convention. Each time she hints I simply say:

“Don’t read it, if it displeases you.”

I dip, write, pause, and blot in careful sequence, hour after hour, supported by my father’s walnut desk. The rhythm is comforting and, though it takes time for my letters to stain, I am making good progress on my subject.

Ah, my subject. The beauty of the young women from the back-to-backs. They unwittingly claw at my senses, from their flowing locks to the smoky scent of their clothing. Everything about them grabs my attention. To capture that essence, that perfect being, is my wish. I made time and prepared my own materials, having married a girl from their number. I am on the cusp of achieving my deepest want.

The golden silence is broken by a cough and a thud on the floor. The thudding continues and the guttural whining starts again. The sleeping draft is wearing off. My wife’s timing is perfect. I am reaching the final line of my poem and I scribe the last word with a flourish. I pull myself up from the desk and lift my work in my hands. The subtle texture of the yellow-pink page is pleasing to my fingertips.

With care I approach her, step by gentle step. She shudders in the shadows as if cold, but the log fire warms the air.

I hold up the completed work in front of my face, to show to her deep brown eyes. Written in pleasing cursive over the smoothly shaven skin, my words are the epitome of eloquence. I’ve left the crimson rose tattoo intact at the top of the piece. It sets off the red lettering and marks the personal nature of her contribution to the work.

Lowering the skin allows me to examine my companion as her body writhes over the straw bedding, pulling herself along with desperate hands, dragging her torso and the oozing stumps of her thighs.

“There’s so much blood,” she says, pointing at my work.

I only have one thing to say to her as I turn away, hurt again by her disapproval.

“Don’t read it, if it displeases you.”

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