Author's website: http://uk.geocities.com/jodie_mouse

Disclaimer: they are borrowed.

Author's Notes: thanks to e-friends

Story Notes: there is het, f/f and implied m/m in this story. there is also mention of self destructive behaviour.

Ray taught me how to do it. How you could cut your skin to leave a shallow line and blood gathering in the wound.

It stung.

The first time I caught him cutting into his flesh I felt sick.

The second time I watched as he calmly carved a line into his arm.

Afterwards I sat on him and let him fuck me, all the time following the blood red line run down his forearm. The blood burned a path down his arm like lava through the side of a mountain.

And the blood was warm and salty in my mouth. Ray was warm and salty inside of me. Warm like lava.

Much, much, later after the divorce I didn't have to watch him anymore. I didn't have to watch him jab the knife deeper and deeper into his stomach. I didn't have to see the white-silver scars crisscrossing his golden skin.

Sometimes at night, after drinking lots of wine and eating lots of chocolate I would take the razor to my skin that Ray used to use and watch the redness blossom like flowers from the white skin beneath. I always lick the saltiness up, warm, vibrant. Alive -- like lava.

Inside I felt cold.

Seeing the blood run in trickles down my arm reminds me I am alive. And breathing. And human.

I know that whatever I say about him Ray kept me grounded, kept me normal. He was...

I have moved on.

I have moved on.

I've perfected what I say to my therapist so that she believes me. She does not know that I keep Ray's razor wrapped in one of his old shirts. She does not know how sometimes I feel the need for the razor to break my skin. To feel Ray inside me one last time.

I have moved on.

I have moved on.

The next time I go to the bull pen in the 27th -- the next time I try to ignore the way Ray and the mountie stare at each other -- I notice her.

Cropped top. Mini skirt. Hair pushed behind her ear.

I wonder if I touched her whether -- it would somehow purge me of Ray. And I wonder what it would be like marble skin against olive, blonde and brunette. Virgin and slut. Except I am not a virgin and she is not a slut.

Life is more complicated than black and white. Ray taught me that.

So each time I see her I wonder what it would be like to taste her between her thighs. To make her shiver. To fuck her with my tongue.

In my dreams I imagine what she would say if she saw my blood trickling down my arm weaving a path along the whiteness of my arm. I wonder what she would taste like if I kissed her -- I imagine she would taste of spearmint and coffee. And between her legs a taste of salt.

And somehow the salt is the sweetest taste of all. At least that is what I imagine.

I want to fuck her with my tongue. I want to suck her nipples. I want her because she is so different from Ray.

But it is my want.

And to be strong I must deny my want.

I will lay at night with Ray's razor wrapped in his shirt beneath my pillow.

I will not entertain thoughts of her.

I will not.

And when I next see my therapist I will not mention her, like I don't mention that I still have Ray's shirt. Like I do not mention I think I made a mistake. Like I never mention all the things that have ever really mattered to me. Because if I mention them to her they will somehow diminish into mere words, mere emotional reactions to events in my childhood. And I don't want that.

I want these things to remain special to me.

I don't want them to be -- analysed. After all, in the dead of night I analyse myself under the cool cotton sheets.

Sometimes I think I should stop going to my therapist.

After all what can she offer me which I cannot resolve with the cut of a steel blade and fingers between my legs? What indeed?

End Lava by Jodie Louise: jodie_mouse@yahoo.com

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