Trickle Of Truth by Anonymous

Her eyes were intense, staring at me, into me, through me, making sure my fears balanced with security. She was reading me like a book to make sure I was ok, and searching for what I may not be able to put into words. "Shaky hands?" Her words curious and composed, reassuring. I held them up, steady, though you'd not think it by the look on my face. "Not even a little, Miss." I responded with faux confidence. "Then lets begin."

My fingers reached down to take a grip of the semi-taped razor-blade that had been sitting in alcohol. "Start with the first letter, make it pretty." Miss encouraged me, carefully watching me as I brought it to my chest. I watched intently, devotion focusing me, fear steadying my hand. With an expressionless face I cut sensation-less lines into my skin, drawing the smallest trickle of blood to fill the grooves to make neat little letters stand out against the whiteness. I did not feel pain, nor a sting or shiver, my mind was blank of all but servitude. I spelt her name neatly into my flesh, and wrote the word that permeates my body.

As I finished the last letter, I began to phase back into reality. My eyes rose from the word to search for hers, and in finding them I received comfort. Her big smile convinced me I'd done well, and that joy broke my focus. A sting in my skin, reminding me of the mark that sits upon me. I manage a smile, enjoying the sensation of sorts, telling me I had done well. "Now anyone can see who possesses you." my Miss states, with glee. "Now you can read what's written on my soul." I simply reply.