The crimson rain is no stranger to the cold linoleum. Every night I t falls. Oozes from fresh wounds caused by pain, betrayal, anger. Words that make a metallic tang in your mouth. It slowly seeps off the steel blade that lays abandoned on the counter, onto the floor making a drip drop sound. The fresh stinging sensation that the blade causes is familiar to the pale skin. It lives for this moment. The moment tension is relived in this crimson rain. Yet something new has mixed with the rain something very different. Wet, clear, salty. A quick pink tongue catches one of these drops above a quivering full lip. A soft hoarse moans as the clear rain becomes faster and the drops fatter. They mingle and mix with the familiar red rain.
“Help Meâ€
