Sharp Things

My wrist has a rhythm, a gentle yet persistent pulse as the injured nerve endings cry out in unison.

Terror fills the veins, the blood, the severed tissue. Layer by layer as the wispy fibers that allow your skin to be an ironclad wall begin to quiver.

Trembling, the echo of steel gnashes and gnarls a hollow promise. A promise repeated, recited, and buried within the heart. A promise to be whispered in the desperate corners of the darkest of minds.

It will only ever be just a whisper, for any louder and it would shatter. The ironclad wall has fallen and what lies behind its gates now gushes into the world, bridled with shame and regret.

The steel demands a sacrifice, and it shall be paid in blood.